


The Ones That Got Away

by new_kate



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Canon-Typical Violence, Circle Mage Bethany Hawke, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, F/M, Hawke is Bad at Feelings, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Slow Burn, i love this game so much, yes all of it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-01-16 13:34:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 96,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12343701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/new_kate/pseuds/new_kate
Summary: Hawke is in love with two complicated men. All three of them are bad at romance and terrible at staying out of trouble.Story begins at the end of DA2 act 1 and ends around Tresspasser.





	1. The Way Out

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to wonderful [fragilespark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilespark/) for stellar beta and for getting me into Bioware fandoms in the first place. My life has certainly been enriched... mostly with angst and tears.
> 
> Please let me know if it needs any additional tags!
> 
> Updates Thursdays.

It took them a week to walk out of the Deep Roads.

There was no daylight, only the reddish glow the walls gave out, but Varric, surfacer or not, still knew exactly how much time had passed. For the first two days their rumbling stomachs kept count of the hours as well. Once they'd shared the last bites of cheese and bread and licked all the crumbs from the seams of their packs they did their best to ignore hunger pangs.

They had water, scant and of dubious quality, seeping down the walls here and there. They tried to gather some into their flasks but always ended up shamelessly sucking moisture right off the stone, stood in a row in placid delight like cows at a salt lick.

Hawke hadn't been this happy in over a year.

Even the crushing weight of her pack was just another reminder that the expedition was a success. She was going home, laden with treasure. She'd made her family wealthy, and they were going to forget all the misery of the last year. They'd leave Gamlen's shack, that tiny room where all three of them had quietly wept into their pillows for months after Carver's death. Hawke would grease some wheels, and Mother would have her title back. They'd move into a fancy Hightown mansion, away from snooping templars, and Bethany would be safe. Everything would be right again.

Whenever they stopped to rest Varric and Anders took turns telling stories. Anders told them how he'd met Justice in the Fade. The tale was rambling, full of holes, bizarre and outlandish, and it rang horrifyingly true. Varric's stories were smooth, with just the right beats in all the right places. Hawke could tell he wasn't quite pulling any of that out of his ass on the spot: he had to be fleshing out the ideas he'd had for a while. She suspected he was liberally adding dragons just for her.

Hawke and Fenris slumped against the opposite wall and listened. She was too tired and thirsty to talk much, and Fenris was, for the most part, a quiet man. Hawke curled her arms around her cramped stomach and watched Varric's easy, cocky grin, traced the lines of Anders' face with her eyes: his perfect nose, his cheekbones. She stared at the lyrium dots on Fenris' feet, they way they shifted a little when he flexed his toes. She wondered what it would feel like to touch them - what would it feel like for him if she touched them.

When they could no longer walk they slept side by side on the stone floor. They had no bedrolls, no blankets, only gold and gems for pillows. Fenris kept his armour on and put himself at the fore.

"I was a bodyguard," he said when she suggested they take turns. "I will sense danger in my sleep and I will wake. Which of you can promise the same?"

So Hawke guarded the direction they came from, in case any nasties had hid in a dark nook while they'd walked past. She lay with her hands on her daggers, her scarf folded under her head. Anders slept between her and Varric, in the spot they'd decided would be safest. They could take the first hits, as long as he was there to mend their wounds a heartbeat later.

On the third day they only napped a couple of hours before waking to Anders' hoarse moans.

"Just when I thought he couldn't possibly get more annoying," mumbled Fenris. His breastplate scraped against the stone floor as he turned over.

Hawke touched Anders' hand where it restlessly clutched at his cape and gently shook it until he quieted, opened his eyes and blinked at the stone ceiling.

"It's a dream," she promised, like she'd done so many times when the twins were little. Like she'd done all that week she and Carver had spent walking home from Ostagar. "Anders, it's just a dream."

"Darkspawn," Anders said. "Grey Warden dreams. Darkspawn - it's fine. They're not near."

They all settled down. Edges of stone paving bit into Hawke's back again, over the bruises from the previous night, and she relaxed into the pain. She was starving, exhausted, thirsty, and she'd not changed her clothes in days. She didn't simply stink, she was getting crusty. But she was going home, triumphant, and she was lying next to three of Kirkwall's finest men. She couldn't complain, really.

 

_'Sis, admit it,' Bethany had said. 'You're leaving me behind because you want to staff this whole treasure hunt with men you fancy.'_

_They'd been having a farewell drink in one of the smugglers' haunts. Funding the expedition had cleaned them out: they couldn't even afford The Hanged Man._

_'Lies!' Hawke protested. 'Not just men!'_

_Aveline couldn't get leave and Isabela had flat out refused to spend weeks underground. Merrill, already shaken up enough by her city adventures, had quietly paled at the suggestion and Hawke decided to spare her._

_'Anyway, all my hopes have been dashed already,' Hawke said and waved for another drink. 'Turns out Varric has someone.'_

_'Who, Bianca?'_

_'Probably Bianca, yes. I'm not one to judge.'_

 

The first time Hawke and Varric got drunk together at The Hanged Man she'd climbed into his lap and suggested a dash upstairs for a tour of his bed and some rogue on rogue action. And, oh, she didn't stop there. It was the first time she'd let her guard down in this shithole of a city and once she started she couldn't shut up. She told Varric he was the most charming scoundrel she'd ever met, she'd bet his silver tongue was good for many things, she was keen to see if all the hype about the dwarven men was true, he had the only real smile she'd seen in Kirkwall so far, she'd been thinking how his muscles would roll under her hands while his smoky voice whispered filthy things in her ear.

Varric laughed warmly, let her pet his chest once and told her he was already in a relationship - a complicated and twisted one, but there you go, Hawke, sorry, my friend.

 

_'What about Anders? He's nice,' Bethany drawled with a drunken grin._

_'He is. I did ask, he said no.'_

 

Anders had the same Fereldan good looks as all the boys Hawke had chased back in Lothering: tall, honey-blond, with a sharp jaw and a proud nose. Her other conquests had been young, more pups than men - most Fereldan farmers married and settled down by twenty-two or so. Anders was at least thirty, his face and body age-hardened, lean, his golden eyes clever, soft and kind. He was an apostate, a Grey Warden, a hero and a healer, aglow with the Fade's fire. Of course Hawke had pounced at once.

'But he likes you, I'm sure. What did he say?'

'That he'd only break my heart,' Hawke rolled her eyes and downed her drink.

'What does that mean? Is that because he might get captured, and then... I don't even know what they'd do to him, do you think…'

'No. Nobody will get captured, not on my watch. No, I think he meant he's a heart-breaker. As in, a huge slut.'

'See, you're perfect for each other!' Bethany yelled, and for one moment Hawke could see a shadow of Carver in her face, in the way her eyes crinkled with mischief, the way she bared her teeth to laugh.

'Oh, fuck off,' Hawke said, struggling to push the words out through the lump in her throat. 'He's being polite, he's saying it's not me, it's him. Whatever the reason, he said no.'

And then there was Fenris.

 

_'He called me a viper, remember?' Bethany said._

_'He's afraid of you. Come on, we grew up listening to people badmouth mages.'_

_'But they didn't know I'm a mage. He does, he says this to my face.'_

_'I didn't think you minded. You're always nice to him.'_

_'I'm nice to everyone! I'm the nice one, you're supposed to be--'_

_They used to have it down to a fine art. Bethany was the nice one, Carver was the scary one, or, if they were going against their parents, the annoying one. Marian was the sensible one. After the twins had softened up the opponent with their hot and cold onslaught she'd step in and suggest what would seem a reasonable compromise._

_Now everything was out of whack._

_'He won't betray us,' Hawke said. 'So I say let him rant if he must. I'll talk to him, but I don't want to push yet. I want to give him time to get used to us.'_

_'Right. You know, Mother would absolutely die if you slept with an elf.'_

_'We're not... Ah, I don't even know! I get so confused when I look at him. He's so beautiful, his face blinds me, it’s like staring at the sun!'_

 

She couldn’t see his face now, just the back of his head, his bright hair shining like a halo in the gloomy tunnel. She could feel the warmth radiating from Anders' side over the hand's breadth of space between them.

"This is nice," she said.

"Hawke is delirious," chuckled Fenris. "Healer, is there hope?"

"Nothing a hard trek tomorrow won't cure," said Anders.

"I mean," Hawke said. "We found treasure. And we're together. Nice."

"It's good to have friends again, I agree," Anders said. "This would be nicer if we had food and I wasn't claustrophobic."

"Are you? Why didn't you say?"

He kept his eyes shut and didn't answer.

On the fifth day Anders stopped sleeping altogether. A horde of darkspawn was close - right beneath them, he said, in other tunnels below. According to their maps there were no passages for the monsters to get here, but Anders was still assailed by their dreams. He spent the nights reading the grimoire he carried in his belt pouch. He had pencil at the ready and sometimes would scribble long notes in the margins, but mostly doodled sketches of cats. For all Hawke knew that too was arcane research - she hadn't the faintest about how Circle magic worked. Bethany knew about five reliable spells Dad had taught her, and everything else she tried wicked her mana dry and fizzled out.

Their hunger had gone from a painful need to a resigned foggy numbness and they were once again ready to talk about food. Now it was no longer a tease, more like a prayer, a pure, transcendent experience.

"Roast mutton," she said. "Whole leg just off the spit."

"Crackling and sizzling," Varric chimed in. "Dripping drops of golden fat. Warm steam streams up when you cut into it. Sprinkle it with garlic and rosemary and the flavour changes, so rich you can just taste it. Or, beef and ale pies!"

"Oh yes," she said. "Flaky soft crust, huge chunks of meat. And carrots, must have carrots."

"Depends on the ale, Hawke. Some sweeter brews call for turnips instead."

"Fried fish!" she suggested. "River trout, stuffed with thyme--"

"Ugh, no fish," said Fenris. "How about some apple pies? I like those they sell at the docks."

"They're rubbish," she said. "Fereldan apple tarts are the best. Bethany will make some when we're back, I promise you'll lose your mind. Anders, back me up, Fereldan apple tarts are the best, right?"

"The way my mother used to make them, yes," Anders said. "Those travesties they peddle at Denerim markets - no. I can't remember how they're supposed to taste, though, it's been a long time."

"No tarts in the Circle, then?" Varric asked.

"Oh, plenty, how else do you pass the time? But no pastries. The cooks are Tranquil. The food is edible, but that's about it."

"No wonder you had to escape that hellhole."

"Yes, clearly, barred cells and sadistic templars are just a minor inconvenience, it's the lack of fine cuisine I'm really fighting against..."

Eventually they smelled fresh sea air and soon staggered out onto the surface - four pale, starved wraiths, each carrying a huge sack of gold. Sunlight hit her face, flooded her sight, and the sensation was deeply nourishing, almost as good as biting into a warm loaf of bread.

She made it back to Kirkwall with her usual impeccable timing. A few minutes later – and she'd have missed seeing her oldest recurring nightmare brought to life. Bethany was surrounded by the templars, surrendering to them, begging Hawke not to interfere.

And she was right. Even in that terrible moment, half-blind with rage, Hawke knew: they still had a lot to lose. So she stepped back and let her sister be taken to the Gallows.

After that nothing made much sense to her for a while.


	2. Apostates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bethany's magic manifested at six, at the best age for it, and in the best possible way: behind closed doors, at their breakfast table, with no witnesses to scream for the templars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flashback time: twelve years ago.

Bethany's magic manifested at six, at the best age for it, and in the best possible way: behind closed doors, at their breakfast table, with no witnesses to scream for the templars.

Bethany scooted forward in her chair and reached for the last slice of stewed apple. Carver grunted with his mouth full and lunged at the bowl, trying to beat her to it even though he still had plenty on his plate. Mother was rising from her seat to break up the tussle that was about to start. Father was digging through his work bag to check he had everything ready. It was a morning like hundreds of others.

And then all the food was blasted off the table.

The apple bowl split in half, spilling its contents onto the table, and the shards shot in opposite directions, one just past Carver's cheek. The water jug shattered against the hearth. Bethany and Carver's cups spun, spraying rivulets of milk over the table. The wicker bread bowl flew across the room, warm sliced bread bounced off the walls and fell onto their unswept floor. Their porridge bowls shattered under the table and spat hot food at their bare feet. Marian's bowl snagged on her spoon and rolled into her lap, scalding her thighs through the thin summer skirt. A red groove was left on her finger where the spoon stem pressed in. The bowl would have slammed into her chest otherwise, like a hot clay fist.

Bethany still sat on the edge of her creaking chair, her hand outstretched and sheathed in white light.

Mother clamped her palm over her mouth and bolted out of the room.

"I'm sorry," Bethany said. "Did I do this?"

Father took Bethany's hand, kissed her glowing fingers and began to explain.

Marian had known most of it since Father had helped Mother birth the twins. He'd had to explain why she couldn't blurt out to the neighbours what she'd seen him do. So she knew about the Circle, and the templars, and she knew that when the Chantry people talked about the evil apostates they meant her dad. They said magic was sinful and dangerous and so were the ones cursed with it, but Father was the best man in the world. That had to mean the Chant was a lie and its followers were fools, and Marian had been quietly certain that Father and Mother thought the same.

But she could have been wrong, because despite his broad bland smile Father seemed terrified. In the upstairs bedroom Mother wouldn't stop weeping. They could hear her whenever Father paused for breath.

"It's fine, we always knew this could happen," Father said. "Give your mother some time, she'll be with you when she's ready."

"Why am I not a mage?" asked Carver. He'd been clutching his fists and spreading his fingers through whole Father's speech, to no visible magical effect.

"It's just... how it is," Father said with a helpless laugh. "We love you all the same, I promise."

He had to begin Bethany's training right away. They'd barely moved since the blast, just sat there and let porridge congeal on the floor, but the room wasn't quiet. Shards of clay scraped and clinked together under the table, and the milk puddles rippled like the lake in strong wind. Father said that was wild mana discharge and Bethany had to learn to control and channel it safely and secretly. Otherwise she'd start glowing and blowing things up in the middle of the market, and that would doom them all.

"But that's easy, right?" Marian asked him while Bethany dressed for the journey back in their bedroom. "You learnt all this when you were little..."

"It wasn't quite like that," Father said. "In the Circle children are first taught simple spells to discharge a surge of mana, but those aren't discreet. It took years before we mastered our magic enough to be able to keep it hidden. That was never a priority for our teachers. Now it is, so I'll use a different approach. I'd never taught child apprentices, I don't actually remember... It'll be fine."

He packed all salvageable bits of bread and cheese from the pantry, wrapped Bethany in Marian's winter coat that fell to her ankles and took her to the nearest wood. It was two hours' trek each way, but he needed a secluded place. He scribbled a letter to his employer and Marian ran out to deliver it, glad for the excuse to be out of the house and run until her lungs burned.

If she'd been born a mage Father would have trained her when she was Bethany's age. She could have helped them both now. She could have even taught Bethany herself, and Father could have stayed home and comforted Mother. But no, Marian was useless, awkward and helpless as ever and Father had had another seven years to forget whatever he'd known about training child apprentices.

When she came back the kitchen was still wrecked, and Carver, still barefoot and in his nightshirt, sat on the stairs to their parents' bedroom. At least the sobbing had stopped. She wanted to call out to Mother but couldn't find the courage.

Having a hot meal for Bethany and Father's return seemed the most urgent thing. There was no food left in the house, just an end of a loaf and some honey. Marian fetched her lockpicks and broke into the money box their parents kept stashed behind the chimney. She considered taking Carver to the market but he was already glaring at the wall as if about to punch it. She could tell he'd be unruly. She'd be lugging heavy bags and he could run off, try to steal something off a sweets stall or ruin someone's expensive wares. He'd be better off left behind.

She went to the familiar vendors, picked the same produce Mother would and hauled it home. The parents' bedroom was still locked, but Carver wasn't on the stairs. She could check the downstairs bedroom she shared with the twins, the yard, the privy, his friends' houses down the street, or she could wait for him to get hungry and turn up on his own. For now a moment of peace and quiet was welcome.

Marian started the stew, listened at Mother's door for a while and crept back downstairs. Now Carver was there, dressed, with dirt and fresh scratches on his face, eating honey out of the jar with his filthy fingers.

"Where have you been, little shit? Come here," she started, reaching for the washing bowl, and he shoved her away with his sticky little hands.

"No," he said. "You're not in charge, piss off."

He dodged her attempt to grab him and ran outside again. She'd follow him, but the stew was burning at the bottom and she had to salvage it.

Mother left her bedroom in the afternoon, just in time to see the destruction wrought by Marian's attempt to make a pie.

"I'm going to town. We'll be moving again soon, I need to make arrangements," Mother said. "Marian, you're almost an adult, could you be less selfish just for one day? Do you care enough about your family to clean up all this mess, at least?"

Just then, of course, Carver ran in, dragging fresh mud over the floor. His shirt was torn and stained and his nostrils caked in dried blood.

"Sweetheart, who did this to you?" Mother gasped as he clung to her skirt.

"Marian," he said, to Marian's utter lack of surprise.

"He's lying!" she screamed anyway.

"I don't have time for this," Mother said. "Take care of your brother, clean the house. It's all I ask."

"I made stew," Marian said. "Do you want some?"

"I'm not hungry."

Once she walked out Carver kicked at the funny bone on Marian's ankle, grabbed a loaf from the table and ran out again. She grit her teeth and went to get the broom.

Father returned at dusk, while she was sweeping up the last of the broken crockery. He was carrying Bethany in his arms, and Marian's heart sank at the sight.

"Did something go wrong?" she asked.

"She's tired," he said. "Best let her sleep."

He set her down on her narrow bed and left their bedroom. Bethany stirred weakly and let Marian pull off her clothes and change her into the nightshirt.

"Is Mother still mad at me?" Bethany asked.

"She was never mad at you, dummy. How was the lesson, did you like it?"

"I'm bad at it," Bethany whispered and her dark eyes instantly flooded with tears.

"Rubbish! You're good at everything, you're a goody goody mama's girl!"

"Not at this. And there are things talking to me, it's scary. But I'll learn, sis, I promise."

She crawled under her blanket and closed her eyes, and Marian quietly backed out of the bedroom. Father still stood in the middle of the kitchen, as if lost in his own home.

"Where's Carver?" he asked.

"Washing up before bed," she lied. "There's stew..."

"I'm not hungry. I'll just say goodnight and turn in myself."

Marian slipped outside and ran up and down the street until she saw Carver with a clump of other boys, digging under someone's fence for whatever stupid boy reason. She twisted Carver's arm in vicious satisfaction and dragged him home. He kicked her shins all the way and bit her thumb, almost drawing blood.

"Father will give you such a hiding," she said.

"Bet he won't. Bet he only cares about Bethany now."

Father was still in the kitchen, sat at the table with his head in his hands. Marian pushed Carver further into shadows and hauled him to their bedroom.

"Go to sleep, you fucking monster," she begged him and went back to the kitchen.

Father hadn't moved yet. She perched on the seat next to him and waited for him to speak.

"It's not going well," Father said. "She's not grasping the basics and I'm afraid to push."

"The walk to the forest is enough to tire her out. Can't you do it here? We’ll lock the door, draw the curtains..."

"No, this must be done far away from you. Do you still have those daggers we got you when we lived in Crestwood?"

She'd begged for those daggers for over a year. They were in the locked trunk on the top shelf in the kitchen, where Carver couldn't get to them.

"Of course," she said and nodded at the knife he always wore on his belt. "But you have..."

"I'll need this one. I never really explained about the demons, have I? There's always a risk with magic. I'll give my life before I let that happen, but you must be prepared. If Bethany comes back without me, that means she's possessed and I'm dead, and she's after the rest of you. Keep your weapons ready."

Marian nodded, suddenly feeling small, dizzy and cold, and discreetly gripped her chair to steady herself.

"You'd have to defend yourself, your mother and brother," Father said. "After me, you're the Hawke. It falls to you to look after them."

He kissed her forehead and went upstairs. She waited for the door to shut behind him, got her weapons and went into their tiny back yard. She pulled several logs from the firewood stack, propped them up to four feet height and swung her daggers at the makeshift dummy.

She could do this.

She thought of the day the twins were born: Mother’s hoarse screams, fading as the hours went on, the midwife telling Father he had to make a decision, and quickly. Marian hadn’t understood back then, but she’d figured it out since. The midwife was telling him they couldn’t save both Mother and the babies. Father sent the woman away and went into their bedroom himself.

Marian had obediently waited outside, shuddering at every scream. The sudden silence terrified her twice as much, and she ran in.

Blood had been everywhere. The long red streams of it rose in the air, danced under Father’s hands. Mother’s eyes were open, and she smiled at Marian. She lifted up Carver - a tiny, gory bundle in her arms - and he wailed his first scream, and a minute later Bethany joined him.

Later Marian had asked Father if that was blood magic - that couldn’t have been, right, Dad, because you’re not evil - and he told her the truth. He taught her it didn’t matter what tools they used, how macabre their actions might seem. Hawkes did what they had to, for each other, for the family.

Bethany's neck would be right there. Marian turned her wrist to level the weapon for a quick slash. Her arms were unsteady, skinny - she'd not had a lesson since Crestwood. She'd hoped to find a new rogue trainer in Denerim but it was so expensive here, and parents wanted her to study something less violent. Languages, Father said, to help with his scholarly work. Commerce, Mother said. You should travel, not be stuck in a library, that's not you.

But this, this was her. She could do this. She lifted the daggers again and watched the moonlight jitter on the shaking blades.

"Are you going to kill them?"

She whirled toward the sound, daggers flailing. Carver was watching her from the back porch. She'd not seen him creep out.

"The templars," Carver said. "If they ever come for Father and Bethany. Templars dispel magic, Father can't fight them. But you can, you'll kill them all, right?"

"Sure," she said and adjusted her stance. The half-forgotten battle forms were still there, snapping to life in her mind and her muscles. She tried the twin fangs attack, a slick slash and throw combo, a fast dodge-and-stab. It was all coming back: the simple thoughtless serenity of motion, the sense of power spiralling from the core of her being, ready to be channelled into destruction.

"Good," Carver said. "I need a weapon too. In case there's lots of them."


	3. Lady and the Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bethany is in the Circle. Hawke is trying to cope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set between Act 1 and Act 2

Hawke quite liked the dungeons in the Viscount’s Keep. Back in Lothering criminals were caged on the streets for the duration of their sentence or their wait for the noose. They had to sit there in rain or snow and shit in the straw under their feet. All they had to eat was whatever soft-hearted villagers would toss at them through the bars, and few people were charitable enough to come close and brave the smell.

Kirkwall’s dungeons had roof and walls, cots, waste buckets and daily meals. Tiny high window left the cell in pleasant shadow, and cool dampness of the air was bliss for Hawke’s beast of a hangover.

She’d been here twice before, during the year they’d ran with the smugglers. Both times she’d distracted the Guard patrol long enough for Bethany to slip away with the goods, and Athenril had her released the next day. The charges were, basically, looking Fereldan while out at night. The bribe couldn’t have been that high, not that Hawke cared as long as it didn’t get tacked onto their debt.

It was, she guessed, mid-morning now: she was hungry, and the sun seemed high. She usually got up early, pushed awake by familiar anxieties. She’d bolt upright in her too-soft monstrosity of a bed and instantly start fretting about Bethany, or about Anders and Merrill, wondering if their Fade friends would be the end of them or the templars would. If Isabela’s enemies were going to catch up with her, and not grant her the courtesy of a duel. If one day Hawke would turn up at Fenris’ mansion to find his corpse in a puddle of blood, his armour stripped off, every bit of lyrium meticulously carved out of his skin.

But there was nothing she could do about any of that while she was locked up here, so there was no point in worrying. Hawke folded her hands on her chest, stared at the ceiling and let her mind rest.

There were familiar steps in the hall outside, a creak of the key, and then the door to her cell swung open.

“Go home, Hawke,” Aveline said.

“Really?” Turning over to face her felt like it would be a monumental effort, so Hawke didn’t. “Feels like my punishment should be stiffer than that.”

“You’re paying for the damages. Nobody pressed charges, so - get out of my jail.”

“Ah, come on. Another night, at least? Maybe a spanking?”

“Did you have a fight with your mother? If you don’t want to go home, rent a room somewhere. This isn’t an inn. Or stop being a child and make amends. Get up, Fenris is waiting for you outside.”

“What? Why?”

“Because you’re my friend and you’re hurt and likely still drunk. He owes me plenty of favours. I asked him to see that you don’t go off on another adventure in this state. Out, before someone looks at him the wrong way and there’s more mess for me to clean up.”

Hawke stiffly rolled off the cot and rocked onto her feet. Something definitely wasn’t right with a few of her ribs and her right kidney. Left side of her face pulsed and pulled whenever she moved her head, and two knuckles on her right fist were split and black with bruising. Luckily, she knew a healer.

Aveline handed over her confiscated weapons and wrinkled her freckled nose when Hawke breathed alcohol in her direction. Hawke slowly strapped the scabbards on, fighting stiffness in her bruised arms.

“I have a favour to ask of you,” Aveline said. “I need your help with some trouble on the Wounded Coast. Come see me once you’ve recovered. And bathed.”

Aveline led them out of the Keep and slammed the doors behind her. The sound rolled through Hawke’s throbbing head, wreaking more havoc.

There it was, Kirkwall. Relentless sunlight bounced off the dirty grey buildings. Blooming vines clung to every wall and exuded nauseatingly sweet smell. The smoke from the foundry rose behind the mansions like a permanent heavy stormcloud. Hawke waited out a dizzy spell and limped down the Viscount’s Way.

Fenris stood at the bottom of the stairs, immobile and perfect like a statue: back straight, chin up, arms crossed on his chest. Some passing nobles stared at a lone armed elf, but so far no mess had occurred.

“Hey,” Hawke said and was rewarded by his slight, soft smile.

“Impressive,” he said.

“Are you talking about my radiant beauty or my natural grace?” she asked, grinning ear to ear.

“The bruises, in this case. Aveline tells me you started a drunken brawl in a brothel.”

“Yep, that sounds like me.”

They headed away from the Keep and he instantly fell into his usual slouch, as if he just needed an ally by his side to relax and let his shoulders drop.

“Next time,” he said. “If you want company, you know where I am.”

“Huh?” she said, sure she’d misheard. The only time she’d tried flirting with him he responded with a startled chuckle and changed the subject. He couldn’t be offering himself as an alternative to a trip to The Blooming Rose.

“I like a good brawl,” he said. “If you’re planning a fight, bring me along.”

“Ah. Well, these things are usually spontaneous.”

He nodded. His overgrown hair fell over his eyes and he tucked a strand behind one ear with a tip of his gauntleted finger.

“I was meeting someone there,” Hawke said.

“It’s your coin to spend as you would,” he said with a small shrug.

“No, I was working a deal. My contact couldn’t be seen with me, so he suggested The Blooming Rose.”

“I didn’t think you still needed those odd jobs.”

“I needed that one. But turned out my coin wasn’t enough for him, he wanted goods and services as well. Funny how fast some people go from ‘I’d like us to be more than friends’ to ‘You should be flattered, the sewers are crawling with cheap Fereldan whores’. From then on violence was a given.”

Fenris stopped abruptly and rocked on his bare feet, staring at her with his brilliant green eyes.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “Did he… touch you?”

It was an odd thing to ask someone covered in bruises. Sometimes she wondered if his King’s tongue really was as flawless as it seemed.

“He offended me,” she explained. “Hence, the brawl. Well, once his friends joined in, until then it was just a thrashing.”

He nodded and they kept walking.

“So what’s bothering you, then?” he asked.

“I love that we know each other so well. Anyone else would assume I’m scowling because my ribs are cracked.”

“I’ve seen you worse,” he said with a grin. He always had at least a smile for every one of her dumb jokes. Some days she spoke entirely in puns just to keep hearing him laugh.

“I’m wondering if rage and pride cost me a good deal. We were only haggling. It could have still worked.”

“No,” Fenris said. “It doesn’t work like that, Hawke. I’ve had plenty of experience, I was on the run for three years, looking the way I do. I have dealt with a lot of people who thought to take advantage of me. That man was trying to cheat and use you from the start. The deal was never going to be good.”

“You’re right,” she sighed and rubbed at the itching cut on her cheek. “Of course, you’re right. Damn, I used to be better at this.”

“You are. You must have been desperate. So it must have been about your sister.”

He really did know her almost too well by now. She didn’t mean for him to find out about that.

“I’m too hungover for this,” she said. “I don’t want to argue right now.”

They were almost at the Amell mansion. She turned right, toward the nearest exit from the Hightown.

“Aveline said…” Fenris started.

“Aveline isn’t really our mother, you know. I’m not going home like this.”

She used to stagger back to Gamlen’s shack looking much worse. Both her and Bethany would often be bleeding, openly weeping in pain, their armour heavy and slick with gore. Sometimes, after a particularly shitty job, they’d be blind drunk, crawling into their bunks while the room spun around them. But back then they’d been working to help their family. Now she was Lady Amell, and she had no excuse for this, no good explanation to give her mother. Now she could well be on the way to destroy what little they had left. Whole families had been jailed for trying to contact their children in the Circles. This was selfish, bull-headed, and Mother couldn’t know about it.

“You’re welcome to clean up at my place,” Fenris said. “I have potions, I brought fresh water from the well just this morning.”

“I need to see Anders.”

They passed The Blooming Rose. Several employees lazed on the porch, resting up before the work would start in the afternoon. They laughed and waved at the sight of Hawke, and she gave them a theatrical bow.

“Thank you, I’ll be back for the encore!” she shouted.

“For what it’s worth,” Fenris said quietly. “I don’t think Bethany needs to be in the Circle. She has proven herself, she’s not weak--”

“She shouldn’t have to prove herself, to you or to them! She should be home, with me!”

They walked the next few minutes in wounded silence. Yelling had pitched her headache to a skull-splitting pain, and she had to wait it out before she could speak again.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “None of that is your fault. I’m not at my best today. Haven’t been at my best, let’s face it, this whole year.”

“Why don’t we take our minds off it all,” he said, unexpectedly softly. “I’ve heard of slaver sightings around Sundermount. Fresh air would do us good.”

“Sounds great,” she nodded. She could do with something pure and easy like cutting down a villain, saving an innocent. And she wanted a real fight, the smell of blood and slashed guts, the sick rush of a kill. She wanted to give into rage and let it purge all else from her mind for a moment.

They slipped into the back alley and pried open the heavy manhole cover.

“I’ll stop by The Hanged Man later, we can make plans then, see who’s in,” she said and slid down the ladder, like they’d done dozens of times.

Raw sewage sloshed under her boots, and the smell hit her right in her roiling gut. She bent over, blinking away tears. The Darktown ambiance was never easy to take, but right now it was unbearable. Breathing through her mouth seemed even worse, as if she could taste the stench on her tongue.

Fenris scooped up her hair and held it away from her face. She badly needed a haircut, but in the past months she’d not really cared how she looked. She’d even stopped wearing kaddis. A bright red stripe across her nose only made her stand out more when she skulked around the Gallows, trying to push coin at whoever would have it, anyone who’d help her get a word to Bethany.

The metal of Fenris’ gauntlets was pleasantly cool against her cheek. She closed her eyes and took shallow breaths, and felt a little better.

“What were you drinking yesterday?” he asked, clearly amused at the expense of her pain.

“One pint of ale,” she moaned. “And a shot of Golden Scythe.”

“A whole shot?”

“Yes, I naturally assumed The Rose waters down its liquors. All right, I’m fine.”

They waded through the sludge, past small clumps of raggedy people who quieted and glared at their approach and then broke into loud whispers as soon as they passed.

“Thank you,” Hawke said belatedly. “For tagging along. I would be easy pickings right now.”

“It’s no trouble. I enjoy your company.”

They reached the lit green lantern and the line of people starting from it, all looking even more haggard and miserable than the rest of Darktown dwellers.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Fenris said. “I’ll see you later.”

He walked away, stepping over the worst of the puddles. She shamelessly ogled his thighs until he turned a corner, and then pushed through the crowd toward the doorway to the clinic.

“Get in line,” protested a man with a swollen jaundiced face. “We’ve been here since dawn. Your black eye can wait, unless you want another one to match.”

He lifted his arm to block her way, and her fuzzy brain pushed her into well-practised battle movement. She shifted to the side and ducked under his arm, about to knee his groin and elbow him in the kidney. Pain lanced through her side as her battered ribcage contracted, and she nearly lost her footing on the slippery floor.

“The healer won’t thank you for that, she’s his lover,” said a familiar woman. Hawke had seen her in the clinic at least a dozen times, which probably meant whatever ailed her wasn’t curable by magic and Anders’ spells only eased her symptoms for a time.

“We’re not lovers, Anders is a dear friend,” Hawke said. “Why, what have you heard? Did he say something about me?”

“Just seen the way he looks at you,” said the woman, grinning. Hawke tried not to shudder at the sight of her teeth: coated in yellow gunk, set in puffy, raw gums. “My mistake, serah.”

“No, no, by all means, let me dream,” Hawke said. “Perhaps it’s not a mistake but a prophecy! Say, do you have any seers in your family?”

“Oh, lots,” the woman said, tipping up her pale Fereldan face. “Can’t you tell I’m half Rivaini?”

Hawke laughed and slipped a silver coin in the woman’s dry leathery palm.

“I’ll be trying to steal your healer for the afternoon,” she said and passed a few copper bits around to mollify the disappointed crowd. “I want to see that he eats something.”

“I brought him food,” said a young woman at the end of the queue. She had a small bundle in her arms, wrapped in relatively clean cloth, cradled against her chest like something precious. And it was, judging by the girl’s shockingly thin wrists. Every meal here could be the difference between life and death.

“Maker bless you,” said Hawke sincerely. The girl’s face was flushed in dark uneven blotches and Hawke hoped it from the painful crush on the handsome healer and not from a deadly catching fever. “You should eat it yourself, though. He has an open tab at a tavern in Lowtown, he can eat a boar a day if he wants. He just needs to remember to go there.”

She slipped through the doorway and tiptoed to the crates in the corner, careful not to disturb Anders’ focus.

He stood over the treatment table and poured beautiful blue light into his patient’s skin, the way she’d seen him do countless times. He frowned and bared his teeth like he did in battle, but his every movement was tight and precise, without the exuberant flair he put into his combat spells.

The light blinked out, and the woman sat up, cured, pink-cheeked. Anders sagged down and staggered back, doubling over in pain or exhaustion, or both, and Hawke rushed to him and grabbed his shoulders to steady him.

“Here, sit down,” she said and pulled him toward the crates. He gratefully leaned into her touch, rubbing his temples, smiling tiredly.

“Didn’t see you come in,” he said.

“This can’t be good for you.”

“It’s fine, that’s how spirit healing works. It’s actually a lot easier now that I’m a Grey Warden. Sure, the taint and the nightmares are still a definite downside, but the stamina - so handy for so many things.”

He looked at her and dropped his hands. The smile was gone, and she instantly missed it.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Oh, you know. Alcohol, poor life choices, just another day of being Hawke. Could use a healing when you’ve rested up.”

“Now,” he said and herded her to the vacated table. His hands were already glowing, and she felt the first blissful tingle of healing seep through her skin. “Do you not realise how badly you’re hurt? You walked here with these injuries - you risked a perforated lung. You could have died steps away from me, chocked on your own blood--”

That was something they both excelled at - imagining the worst possible disaster. He was even better at it than her.

“I was with Fenris. He just left, you know how he always has something better to do than listen to us talk about the plight of the mages.”

He cradled her back, helped her lower herself onto the table and ran his hands along her sides. The warmth of the spell ghosted through her flesh like a teasing caress, and she had to bite her lip to hold back a whimper. He healed her ribs, her kidney, her hands, her face, her skinned knees, the bruises on her thighs and her stomach. He had his eyes closed, sensing his way around her body by magic alone, so she could stare at his face all she wanted. She clamped down on the urge to blurt out something desperately affectionate and embarrassing, and somehow another thing she usually kept locked behind her teeth tumbled out.

“I miss Bethany.”

“We all do,” he said. “Is that why you tried to give yourself alcohol poisoning?”

He moved his fingers and pulled the headache and nausea right out of her, and left her light-headed, dizzy from the sudden lack of pain, weak.

“She’s all alone there, and I don’t know what’s happening to her,” she said. “I know my father survived there for twenty years, and you have too, of course, but Bethany… Everyone thinks she’s tough, she ran with the smugglers, but she’s just a sheltered child. She’s nice to people, you know? She rolls over and keeps smiling, and thinks that would stop them from hurting her. If she’s just nice enough, they wouldn’t be mean. She honestly still believes that. I have to see her; I need to know she’s all right. The mages at the Gallows won’t talk to me. They could get thirty lashes just for that, that’s what the templars do there. Bethany could have been whipped! Our parents never even smacked her! She could have--”

She could have been made Tranquil by now. She could be dead. There was a deep mournful line between Anders’ eyebrows, but he still wouldn’t say anything, because they both knew - it was all possible.

The Circle would eventually write to the family about death or Tranquility. They did write to Revka Amell about her other kids, the ones who didn’t become Heroes of Ferelden.

“So,” Hawke said. “So when the mages wouldn’t help me I tried the templars, and that’s even worse!”

“Did the templars do this to you?” he asked, his voice dropping to a pained whisper. The flow of warmth from his hands stopped, and she nearly reached for his wrists to tug them back, to put his hands on herself again.

“I told you, I got drunk and started a fight.”

“Don’t deal with the templars, I beg you. You don’t know what they are. For every Ser Thrask there are dozens who joined the order to have unchecked power over mages. Some of them hate us for our magic, but plenty simply revel in having helpless victims at their mercy. If they see you’re desperate they’ll exhort you and hold this over your head forever. You’ll only put Bethany in more danger this way. Once they know you can’t bear to lose her, or to see her hurt, they’ll enjoy dangling that threat in front of you, they’ll use her--”

“You’re glowing,” she said and grabbed both his hands. “Anders, people are watching.”

His eyes were pools of blue and his face was split with branching cracks, the spirit fire spilling through. She squeezed his fingers. He shut his eyes and for the moment he was clutching at her, skin to skin, warm, close, desperate. Then the glow faded out, and the room was left darker and colder than before.

The waiting patients still politely hung back by the doors. Nobody was screaming in panic about possessions and abominations. Either they hadn’t noticed, or had seen it all before and cared little.

Anders pulled free from her grip and stepped away. Hawke hopped off the table and stretched, chasing away the unpleasant tenderness that usually lingered over healed wounds like a bad memory. The first patient in line, the old lady who thought they were lovers, nearly pushed forward to take her place but stopped, giving them space to finish talking.

“Don’t deal with the templars, please,” Anders said. “I didn’t want to tell you until I had more, but I’ve been rebuilding my connections in the Gallows. The people who helped me and Karl are… not there anymore. But I’ve made new friends since. Mages trust their own. If you just wait…”

“I can’t. I’m climbing walls in that mansion, I need to do something.”

“I know. And I’ll need your help soon. To trade favours at first, and then, hopefully, to do more. You money, your title and your blades, we’ll need all of that. And you can’t help if you get yourself killed, crippled or jailed. Please - for Bethany. For all the mages. Can you trust me and wait?”

It was only a hope, and it could be a false one. He could still be playing the healer, inventing a reason for her to go on without spiralling into a worse mess than she was.

“A favour for a favour,” she said. “I’ll wait if you have dinner with me.”

“I,” he stumbled. “I can’t now, I have patients.”

“When do you not?”

He glanced at the line by the door. There were over a dozen just outside, craning their necks to see when he’d be ready for the next one. There was no telling from here how many stood outside in that snaking miserable line. He wouldn’t be done by dusk, and more would only keep arriving.

“Let me see if there are urgent cases,” he said and went to examine every single person in the line. Hawke curled up on the crates and waited.

It didn’t stink as much of sewage in here, away from the worst of it. The clinic had its own sour smell of sickness and misery, with a distinct hint of vomit. She’d stopped minding that a long time ago. The air of Darktown clung to Anders’ heavy clothes, his hair and skin. She could smell it when he entered the room, even in a place as ripe with its own unique flavours as The Hanged Man. She didn’t mind that either.

It took the rest of the afternoon. Anders handed out a few home-brewed potions and poultices and politely refused the gift of food the young woman still tried to hoist upon him. He picked out several sickest patients, including the uppity jaundiced man, healed them up and then extinguished his lantern and gave the rest a smile of apology. He washed his face in a cupful of water in a small bowl, quickly retied his hair, giving her just a glimpse of a loose blond wave falling past his jaw, and finally they were off.

“So, you were with Fenris,” he started after a few minutes.

“Are you about to say something nice about him?”

“Probably not,” he said. “How’s your mother holding up?”

“She’s fine. Do you need money? For bribes, when you’re looking for a contact in the Gallows?”

By the time they made it to The Hanged Man the place was packed with the early evening drinking crowd. Merrill and Fenris were eating at a corner table, sat just a little too far apart to be able to talk without shouting over the din. Hawke returned Merrill’s smile and kissed the top of her head, the neat parting in her dark hair. Fenris nodded at her with a tiny grin and pointed his spoon at the loud clump of people in the back.

She headed over there and Anders trailed after, probably to delay the moment he’d have to share dining table with Fenris and Merrill. Hawke had already guessed what that was, and why Fenris and Merrill weren’t listening in. If Varric spotted them he’d stop. He was somewhat shy about his stories getting back to her. Only Isabela, apparently, was allowed to listen: he trusted her not to repeat his tales, because she was busy writing her own.

Varric was there with a giant tankard in his hand, his shirt generously unbuttoned as usual, his cheeks pink from the drink. He held court over a score of revellers, most of them Fereldan humans, but there were plenty of faces Hawke hadn’t seen before. Everyone was rapt on him, and Hawke stopped at the edge of the crowd, staying out of Varric’s line of sight.

“So Hawke is at a corner table with some human guy,” Varric said. “Maybe it’s a date, maybe business, but for now they’re just talking. Until he says something she doesn’t like.”

“What?” someone asked. “What’d he say?”

“With Hawke, who knows?” Varric shrugged. “He might have said her mabari farts too much. Anyway, Hawke looks like she’d swallowed a frog. She gets up, marches to the bar and orders a shot of Golden Scythe.”

“No!” moaned a few listeners in delight.

“Yes! I don’t know why they’d even serve it to her by a shot - customer is always right, I guess? Now if any of you don’t know, that thing is battlefield spirit. A berserker would take a few drops to push past the first pains, until the bloodhaze takes them. You’d give a sip to the wounded before surgery. Hawke grabs that cup and downs it in one. The kid’s still trailing after her. She tells him to get lost, but he keeps getting in her face. She pushes him - just fingers to his chest, like this, but she’s already too tipsy to know her strength - and the poor blighter falls right on his ass.”

Varric took a deep swig from his tankard while the audience chuckled and carried on:

“He should have stayed down and crawled away, but no. He gets up and takes a swing at her. Hawke dodges, uppercuts him to the stomach, knees him in the face, punches the back of his head, one-two-three and he’s out. That’s too fast, of course, too easy, she’s fired up now. She jumps on a table, hoists the poor kid up and starts screaming: ‘Who’s friends with this nug shit? Come at me all at once, I fucking dare you!’ And what do you know, five humans get up and come at her all at once as requested. Turns out the kid is a templar, a new recruit. So every templar in the joint, two still in full armour after a patrol, are rushing her, the Rose workers are all ducking out of the way and under the tables…”

“Shit, Hawke,” breathed a familiar Fereldan voice. It was one of her Bone Pit foremen, the one in charge of compiling the lists of equipment to be replaced as it succumbed to wear, tear and dragon rampages. She’d never heard him say her name with such reverence, not even when she announced pay rises.

“Hawke’s drunk off her tits by now, she doesn’t care how many of them are there,” Varric continued. “Not that she’s much better sober. She drops her knives and demands hand to hand combat so there’s no needless loss of life, and she lays into them.”

“So it was the templars after all,” Anders said under his breath, but he was smiling and, thankfully, not glowing. Now that her bruises were gone the whole incident was just a fun adventure, fodder for Varric’s stories.

“Can I help it if you can’t spit in this city without hitting a templar?” she said. “Or can’t punch a fool without hitting a templar? Shh, this is the good part.”

She remembered little of the battle. There had been a moment of weightless drunken grace when the templars couldn’t touch her, couldn’t land a single punch, and she’d dodged and kicked and felt invincible for a few breaths. Next she’d been scrambling to get up, smudging the floorboards with blood. She’d still felt no pain. The drink had dulled her senses and loosened her muscles, and she ended up with a lot less damage than there could have been. Fear had only kicked in when she realised she was about to be stomped on by templars in full plate. She’d rolled under the bar; the templars had been dragging her out by the ankles when the guards showed up.

But that kind of scene wouldn’t do for Varric. He never left his audience wanting more. Usually he got carried away and left them wanting a bit less.

“So those five are out, all unconscious,” Varric kept going. “And the doors burst open and another six templars run in!”

He could do this for hours, adding more opponents long after the never-ending battle had stopped holding the listener’s attention. Hawke pushed through the crowd and waved at him.

“Oh hi, Hawke,” said Varric somewhat sheepishly.

“The story ends with the City Guard hauling drunk Hawke to jail,” Hawke said. “And my mabari doesn’t fart too much. She gets a little windy when irresponsible dwarves feed her pie crusts.”

“You’re already out, huh,” said a guy who used to work for Athenril during Hawke’s time there. “Any of us would be rotting in dungeons for weeks.”

“Yeah, but I’m lovable, I actually have friends to pull the strings for me,” she said. “Besides, I brighten up this dump of a city. It’d be a waste to keep me locked up.”

“Must be nice to have money and title, and do whatever you want and not have to pay for it,” the man grumbled.

“It is very nice,” she agreed. “Though it would be nicer to have my sister back. I will find out who sold her out to the templars, I swear.”

“We all told you,” he said. “Whoever it was, it wasn’t us.”

The smugglers crew still were her top suspects. They’ve seen Bethany fight, they all knew what she was, and any of them would sell their own souls for five sovereigns if they could figure out how to detach them. She glared at the man while he and the rest of the crowd dispersed to other tables, and then pulled Varric along to join their friends.

Isabela was sat between Fenris and Merrill now, whispering into Merrill’s ear something that made Merrill giggle so hard the stew sloshed out of her spoon. Hawke waved to Norah, ordered food and drinks and leaned in front of Anders and across Merrill’s lap to grab Isabela into a hug.

Isabela looked glorious, content and glowing in a way that suggested recent great sex. Her skin smelled of spiced soap, musk and sunlight, and Hawke didn’t want to let go.

“Can you lend me a clean shirt?” Hawke asked and smoothed hers down to demonstrate the problem.

“Bloodstains bring out your eyes,” Isabela said. “But, sure, my chest is yours, feel free to grab anything you like.”

Fenris coughed around his mouthful of food and Isabela helpfully patted his back.

“What?” asked Merrill. “Did I miss it again?”

Isabela went back to whispering into her ear.

“So, Hawke,” said Varric. “Just so I can flesh out my character’s motivation, did you know that kid was a templar?”

“I did. Thought he could be useful, but we didn’t agree on the price.”

“Then why did you call out his friends? You had to know you’d get a beating.”

“That’s something I learnt from you,” she said. “The right ending can change the whole story. If I turned him down and left it there, he’d hold a grudge. He could’ve taken it out on my sister, and there’d be nothing I could do about that. But if the story ends with the templars teaching a drunk hooligan a lesson - that’s just funny, we’ll all laugh about it together, we’ll still do business. That was the idea.”

Varric nodded and clanked their tankards together.

“You and me, Hawke,” he said. “We’ll go places in this city.”

In truth, Hawke didn’t have the ambition to match his. Varric had stepped into the space vacated by Bartrand and had already risen far beyond that. He’d invested the treasure, made friends everywhere from Carta to Viscount’s Keep, and was manoeuvring between Coterie, the Merchant’s Guild and the Fereldan gangs, either plotting something big or just sticking his fingers in every pie out there because he could.

All Hawke had ever wanted was to see her family safe and fed, and she’d both succeeded beyond her expectations and failed miserably. But Varric was a friend, and she was going to help him however she could.

“Why am I your muse, anyway?” she asked.

“Because you’re fun. And it can be useful to make your shadow grow. And, I’m sure you’ve noticed, a lot of people in Kirkwall think the Fereldan refugees are the worst thing that’s happening here right now. They could use a hero like you. And so can I, if you’re not too busy setting random shit on fire because you miss your sister. I might have a lead on Bartrand, I’ll need backup. Can I count on you?”

“Sure, any time. Anders, can you come with us? We’ll need a healer.”

“Of course,” Anders said, slowly picking his way through the stew. “At night would be best, when the clinic is closed.”

“Always happy to have you along, Blondie,” Varric said. “But it’s not like Bartrand has a high dragon in tow, we’ll be fine.”

“No,” Hawke said. “I meant, we’ll need a healer for Bartrand when we’re done with him.”

“What, we should heal him up before we boil him in oil?”

“He’s your brother,” Hawke said. Varric looked like he was about to argue for a moment. Then there was pity in his eyes, the kind that was becoming sickeningly familiar to her, and he finally looked away.

“Lethallan,” called Merrill and leaned over Anders to tug at Hawke’s pauldron. “Fenris says you’re going to Sundermount soon. Can I come with you? I need to speak to the Keeper - well, it might end in yelling, actually. I’d like to have a friend with me. And I don’t want to miss out on killing slavers, too!”

“Of course you’re welcome,” said Hawke. She put down her spoon, suddenly a little queasy, even though her hangover was utterly gone by now.

“Hey,” Isabela was right there, her breasts pressing warm and supple against Hawke’s back. She put her hands on Hawke’s shoulders and tugged her from her seat. “Let’s go pick out that clean shirt for you, shall we?”

She let herself be dragged up the stairs and into Isabela’s small room. It still faintly smelled of sex, even with the window propped open. Hawke sat on the rumpled bed, lonely, horny, wondering why she let herself be stuck in this dry spell for so long. Isabela opened her chest and flung an armful of silks in Hawke’s lap.

“How about this one? You can lace it up so it won’t gape,” she said, holding up the bright blue garment. “What came over you there? You looked like you found an eyeball in your stew, and that barely happens here more than twice a week.”

“Everyone is treating me like I’m a lame horse,” Hawke said. “Call me paranoid, but I’m sure they’re all inventing busywork for me, nonsense jobs and favours just so I stay sober and out of trouble. All of them, even Aveline.”

“Ah,” Isabela said. “Maybe this is the wrong time to bring up a favour I need from you, then. It’s about my relic, and it’s only my life on the line, but if you’d rather drink and mope…”

“No, of course I’ll help you. I know it’s real, you wouldn’t invent that just to coddle me. Right?”

Isabela tipped her face up and gently kissed her on the lips, and Hawke fisted her hands in the blue fabric to stop from reaching for her. This just Isabela being herself. Hawke had seen her deal with plenty of The Hanged Man patrons who had thought her flirting meant something. She didn’t want to become another one of those.

“If course I wouldn’t,” Isabela said. “You can nap here if you don’t want to go downstairs yet.”

Hawke felt better already. She changed and went back to the table, and they drank and played cards until Aveline finished her patrol and joined them, and then they drank and played cards some more.

“I better go,” Hawke mumbled when the air was so thick with alcohol fumes it had to be close to midnight. “I miss my dog.”

She waved off their offers to walk her home and stumbled out into the darkness. Someone followed her all the way, at a distance and stepping softly. She tried to convince herself it was a hopeful mugger and not one of her busybody friends.

The doors of her mansion were locked but not barred. The household was waiting for her. She tiptoed inside, happy to see the foyer empty, tried to close the door without making a sound, and was mowed over by ten stones of a mabari.

“Bear, hi, you’re a good girl,” she whispered and curled up on the rug by the fire to cuddle and pet the panting dog.

“Evening, Marian,” said Mother. She was already in her night clothes but wide awake, as if she’d been waiting up. “Where have you been? I got this mysterious note from Aveline that you wouldn’t be coming home yesterday.”

She wasn’t even angry. She never was angry anymore. She used to blame Marian for a lot of their misfortunes, and although that had always felt bitterly unfair, she wasn’t wrong. Most of it really was Marian’s fault.

Lady Amell’s romance with a handsome Circle mage should have been a fleeting thing. The passion, true and deep as it was, should have burned out, the lovers should have accepted their fate and gone back to their lives, to remember that youthful tryst fondly. But Marian came to be, clawed her way to life, selfish and stubborn as ever even before she was born. She doomed them all to the life on the run, years of poverty and fear, forever being friendless to better guard their secret. Her parents were a scholar and a noble, neither of them even knew how to cook or chop firewood, let alone rear a child. They’d been helpless those early years, alone, often miserable. But they had Marian, so they had no way out.

Marian wasn’t a mage, so after Father died Bethany was all alone, with no one to learn from and lean on. Marian was a scoundrel, a cut-throat, a compulsive brawler, and Carver had grown up trying to copy her in all the worst ways possible. He became a warrior because of her, and they’d ended up enlisting together. After Ostagar he’d been a dead man walking. He’d been throwing himself at every enemy as if that would turn the tide of battles long lost. If not for the ogre, it would have been something else. It was all Hawke’s fault, Mother was right about that.

Losing Bethany was on Hawke as well. She should have taken Bethany to the Deep Roads and left Anders behind instead. Those weeks had been torture for him. She could have spared him that, and saved Bethany.

But this was worst of all: now, with Bethany gone, with barely anything remaining of them, now Mother didn’t blame Hawke for a thing. Now the last stain the magic had left on their family was gone and Leandra had her old life back: her title, her noble friends, her beautiful home, every luxury she was ever owed, and that seemed enough for her. She was grateful, kinder and more affectionate than ever.

“I was at the brothel, Mother,” Hawke said. That got no reaction at all, not a single scandalised gasp.

“Ah, that explains why she was so cryptic. Have you eaten?”

“Yes.”

“I had Sandal draw you a bath in case you’d be back tonight. I thought if you were on one of your sorties to the wilds you’d need it. It’ll be cold by now, I can fire up the stove again.”

“It’s fine. I should sleep, I’m really tired.”

Hawke locked herself in her bedroom, washed up in cool soapy water and climbed into bed, shivering. Bear hopped in after her and burrowed against her side, warm and slobbery, and Hawke petted the dog’s rump and tried to will herself to sleep.

“Sorry, Bear,” she said after half an hour. “I need some air. Be a good girl and wait for me.”

She got dressed and climbed out of her window rather than brave the foyer again, and was at the doors of Fenris’ mansion in minutes, even before she knew where she was going.

She needed to see him. She needed Anders just as much, but he would hopefully be asleep by now. She wouldn’t wake him for this. He never looked rested enough as it was.

Fenris still hadn’t replaced the locks he’d broken when they’d stormed Danarius’ mansion. He carried all his valuables, mostly potions and coin, in small pouches on his belt, so there was nothing here to steal in his absence save for the dwindling supply of wine in the cellars. He let the doors stand open, and only barred them when he went to bed. If he wasn’t up she’d go back to The Hanged Man, see if Varric or Isabela were still drinking downstairs…

The doors swung open when she tried them. She headed for the room Fenris had claimed for his bedroom, or, more accurately, half-heartedly camped in.

She was half-way up the stairs when she heard him scream. She knew the sound well - it was the same bellow of rage he let out in battle, when he set his lyrium brands alight. She drew her daggers and ran, soundlessly, hoping to ambush his attackers.

He was alone in the room. He sat on the bed with his hands peacefully folded in his lap, his sword sheathed and leaning on the bed frame two feet from him. He was still in full armour, unharmed and unhurt, if startled by her grand entrance.

“Did you stub your toe?” she asked, putting her blades away.

“Ah, you’ve heard. Let’s go with that, yes,” he said, his voice just a little hoarser than usual. “Do you need me? I’d welcome a diversion.”

“We can always go dockside and fight whoever jumps us if you’re bored. But, no. I was home, thinking about howling at the moon much like you’re doing, and then thought I’d rather have company and another drink. So, yes, actually. I do need you and your wine stash.”

He leaned behind the bed and came up with an opened, mostly full bottle.

“I have started on this one already,” he said. “I can fetch you another. Or a glass, I have one. Well, it’s a cup.”

“I’m happy to share,” she said and he handed the bottle over. She took a swig and passed it back, and watched him press his lips where hers just have been. “We drink too much as it is.”

“That’s true, it is starting to lose the novelty for me. I’ve been cutting back lately.”

“I’ll follow your good example, then, right after we finish this one.”

They sat side by side on his bed and drank tart Tevinter wine in easy silence. One of the moons shone through the hole in the roof, perfectly positioned for howling at. Fenris had pushed the bed far enough into the corner so even the worst slanted rain wouldn’t get to it, but made no effort to patch up the hole or relocate to one of a dozen other rooms. He must have liked seeing the sky from his pillow.

“At least you have a good reason to lose sleep,” he said. “You had high hopes for that failed deal, I imagine. I’m sorry that didn’t work the way you wanted.”

She grunted and took another gulp of wine. She still had some hopes left. She didn’t want to go to Thrask with this until all else was exhausted, didn’t want to risk him getting caught passing messages and arranging meetings. Those were supposed to be small favours, easily bought for a few sovereigns. She’d been planning to save whatever goodwill there was between them and Thrask for later, for something much more daring, but she could change her mind if she had to.

“I don’t even know why I am like this right now,” Fenris said. “I’m safe, fed, entertained. Today should have been a good day. Yet all I feel is this… magic crawling under my skin. This stain on my soul. All I want is to scream until my throat seizes.”

“It could be because you’re safe. I was in the army, just for some weeks, long enough to hear my share of the campfire stories. The old soldiers said the worst wasn’t the battles. Not even waiting for the battles. It was after you come home, when it’s all over. That’s when you really feel it all, they said.”

“That sounds like a needlessly cruel joke.”

“Doesn’t it? Truth is, I don’t know what it’s like for you. I can listen, but I’ll never really understand.”

“Nor can I truly understand your grief. I want to share and ease that burden you carry, but I know I can’t. If I ever loved anyone the way you love Bethany, the way you loved Carver, that’s all gone. I don’t even remember how that felt. For better or worse, I am alone.”

“You don’t have to be,” she said carefully.

They usually drank at the table, leaning back in heavy carved chairs. She was oddly aware that they sat very close, that the bedsheets under her probably kept the scent of his skin. She wasn’t even sure what she was getting at: if she meant to give him that tired line that friends could be just like a family, when they were barely even friends yet, or if she was ready to admit just how much she wanted to touch him. With him, for the first time in her life and for reasons she couldn’t fathom, she was always afraid to come on too strong.

“It’s not as simple as wishing,” he drew his feet up onto the bed and curled his back against the wall. “And there is a lot to say for this kind of life. No one to find me at fault, whatever I do. No one close enough to betray me. When I first slept here, alone in this mansion, all these walls and empty rooms around me, it felt like the first full night’s sleep in years. And, look at you. You don’t have to be alone either. Yet here you are, drinking the night away with an elf, an escaped slave.”

“I’m not alone, am I? I’m with you.”

He met her eyes for a brief moment and looked away with a smile.

“You do have a point.” He reached out and she handed him a near-empty bottle. He poured the last dregs into his mouth and licked his wine-stained lips. “Another one? Or shall we step out for a bout of night time violence?”

“Violence,” she decided. “Let’s check if we have another slaver infestation in those warehouses. Today was a fine day, you’re right. We just need to end it with the same good cheer as we started it.”


	4. Potion Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and Anders make potions and pine for each other.
> 
> Set sometime before Act 2.

It had been raining for weeks. Instead of being washed clean white, the walls of Hightown took on a sick greenish hue. The streets of Lowtown turned into one enormous puddle with a few mud-slick islands. People threw in bricks and rubble to make little fords they could use without getting their feet wet, but the water kept rising, and makeshift fords became underwater menaces for people to trip over. The Alienage tree seemed to be the only thing thriving in the city, its foliage glossy and dark, its roots ringed with new shoots.

Lowtown had never looked more like what it really was: a neglected open sewer. Blocked pipes and flooded channels had turned shantytowns and flea markets into stinky poisoned lakes. People crowded every dry crevice of the place, all their belongings bundled in their arms, wearing all the clothes they had at once to ward off the pervasive chill. Perched by the walls in endless rows, the refugees looked like a flock of birds on a fence: their faces beaky, gaunt, all wearing the same resigned, exhausted yet grimly alert expression. Hawke emptied her pockets of copper and silver as she walked by, pressing coins into their cold hands. A young woman at the end of the line struggled to close her fist, her fingers perhaps numb from the chill. She dropped the coin into the sewage and burst into tears.

Hawke kicked the coin out to the dry patch, picked it up without taking off her gloves, shook it dry and slipped it under the woman’s shoe, and walked away at a speed just short of running. That could have been us, she thought. Blood wildly pulsed in her temples on every step. That could have been Bethany.

Anders’ lantern hung on the wall unlit, but he was expecting her. Hawke knocked on the flimsy door, waited for the familiar voice calling from the inside and let herself in.

The clinic smelled almost fresh for once, all its persistent aromas washed away by thick sheets of rain. There were puddles on the floor under each of the gaping windows. Fat rain drops drummed on the roughly hewn stone windowsills, and she couldn’t even see the ever-present bulk of the Gallows across the water.

Anders was at his desk, with his arms full of bundled herbs he’d been taking down from the strings under the ceiling. They’d gathered some whenever they travelled out of the city, and it had been a long while now. First she couldn’t find strength to leave Gamlen’s shack, let alone the city, until Mother and Bodahn marched her over to the mansion and set her to the menial tasks of moving the household into a dusty ruined shell of a building. Then she’d been madly spinning plans to get Bethany out, or at least to contact her, and couldn’t leave either. Later - or probably during, there had definitely been some overlap - she’d been busy drinking. That came in bouts - she’d wake shaking from a hangover and was drunk again by noon. And now, when she’d finally gained some equilibrium again, they were pinned down by rain.

In this damp cave the herbs never fully dried, and now the last batch was turning to mould. Today they were going to cook it all up into potions.

“Hawke,” said Anders, piling the herbs onto the desk. “I finally have news about Bethany. She’s fine, she’s--”

Hawke ran at him in blind exultation, like her mabari rushed her when she came home. She grabbed him in a hug, trapping his arms between them, and buried her face in dusty feathers at his shoulders.

“She’ll have correspondence privileges soon,” he said, holding still against her. “Though you’d be lucky to get one letter every three years, the way that works. She’s…”

It felt as if her lungs were inflating to the full after years of strained half-breaths. She held him tight, feeling the hollows between his ribs and the rap of his heartbeat even through the padding of his coat. The mingled smells of the herbs crushed between them were thick in her nose, making her eyes water. She couldn’t let go of him; his warmth was exquisite, the scent of his breath was so dear and familiar even thought she had never even kissed him.

She suddenly decided she was going to kiss him. Bethany was fine and everything was as right as it was ever going to be now, so Hawke could celebrate by stealing one kiss.

But just then he wriggled his shoulder, gently trying to get free, and she had to let him go.

He dumped the rest of the herbs out of his arms, straightened his coat, his hair. His face was red, and her own cheeks were burning. If Isabela walked in on them right now she’d assume they’d only just pulled up their pants.

“Thank you,” Hawke said. “Did you see her? Did she give you a note for us?”

“Not yet. I’ll keep trying, but I trust people who told me this. She’s been Harrowed, just a week after they took her. It went very smoothly.”

“That’s the one where you kill a demon? Of course she flew through it, what’s one lousy demon to a Hawke! I bet they didn’t expect a fighter, did they?”

“They rarely do. Very few hedge mages like her had a good teacher. Harrowing the adult apostates is mostly an excuse for an execution. Someone who’s been raised free, like you and Bethany - imagine what the other mages could learn from such a bright soul. The templars don’t want troublemakers like that in the Circles.”

“One thing she’s not is a troublemaker. She’s far too clever for that,” Hawke said proudly. She didn’t say that Bethany couldn’t make trouble for trouble’s sake if she tried her best. Sure, she’d followed Hawke into the life of crime, just like she’d followed Father into the life of apostasy, pious as she was, because she’d do anything for them. She was so good, so driven to help others and earn their praise. Now she’d do that by following the rules instead of breaking them. In a way, this life would probably be easier for her.

“She’s attending classes now,” Anders said. “But this is mostly with the view to have her become a teacher herself. By the next year she might be tutoring apprentices.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“It’s certainly a job and a half. But she’d get the title of an Enchanter, and there are some privileges to go with that. Karl was--”

He stuttered, probably choked up by the memories again. Or perhaps realising that was a bad example. Whatever privileges Enchanter Thekla used to have, they hadn’t done him much good.

“We might as well start on these,” she patted the piled herbs. Anders nodded and pulled more supplies from the chest under the desk. There was a piece of slate to use as a cutting board, a granite pestle and mortar, several scratched pots and a small paring knife.

Hawke took one look at the blade, shuddered and fumbled in her bag for whetstones.

“Use this for now,” she handed him a spare knife from her boot. “Let’s see if I can save this sick puppy.”

“I don’t want it too sharp,” Anders protested meekly. “I’d rather take time chopping than lose my fingers.”

“Chopping is absolutely safe if you hold the knife correctly. Come on, show me how you do it.”

He rolled his eyes, lined a handful of elfroot twigs on the slate and sawed the blade across the stems. Hawke reached out and carefully rearranged his long fingers on the knife and on the herbs, keeping the touch impersonal, like her childhood teachers would correct her. She took his wrist and demonstrated the motion, and nodded when he repeated it.

“See how this improves your precision,” she said. “Keep these fingers gently curled and your arms relaxed.”

“Is this from your rogue training?” he asked. “I’m trying to imagine the situation where you’d gently hold an opponent and slice them thinly with your arms relaxed.”

“I’m sure there is a time and a place for such a technique, but no. I picked this up from the army cook. He used to let us do scullery work for seconds - you won’t believe how much Carver used to eat, he needed about triple rations. And they wouldn’t officially conscript my mabari, even though she’s worth a dozen two-legged recruits. I had to get bones and gruel for her as well.”

“Cooks are important allies,” Anders nodded. “The cook at Amaranthine used to dry strips of mackerel in the smokestack for Pounce. Something I could carry in my pack, a nice treat for him to nibble on. He loved those. Always purred and butted my hands so I’d pet him.”

Hawke whetted and honed the blade and joined him at the table. The herbs were wilted but still fleshy, crunching under her knife. They minced a bunch of elfroot each and swept the green mess into the mortar, and Anders picked up the pestle.

“What are we making?” Hawke asked. “I can start on the next ingredient.”

“Elfroot potion to begin with,” Anders took his grimoire out of his belt pouch and opened it near the beginning, on a list written out in a careful, almost childish hand. “Triple this recipe, that’ll just fill the big pot. Then we’ll start on a preparation for chest coughs, we’ll need some in this weather.”

“Where’s your distillation apparatus? I’ll set it up.”

“There, right behind all my jewellery and tapestries,” he pointed to the corner and smirked when she actually turned to look. “It’s fine, it doesn’t have to be a tincture, infusions will do. I already made the macerates last night.”

“Well, why didn’t you say? I saw a lovely set of alembics for sale in Hightown, I could have brought them with me!”

“I can’t keep anything like that here, I don’t want this place trashed in a robbery. We’ve been over this.”

They’d had a row about that back in the Deep Roads. The profits were supposed to be split between Hawke and Varric, and the rest of the expedition were only owed a wage. Hawke wanted Fenris and Anders to have a small share as well (‘A share of your share, if you must,’ Varric had corrected. ‘This, Hawke, is why you’re poor to begin with.’), and was taken aback when neither would take even a sovereign extra. The reason they both gave, which baffled her, was that they had nowhere safe to store that excess wealth, and having it would only draw robbers and endanger their lives.

In the end they’d agreed that Hawke would pay for their equipment and Varric would pick up their tabs at The Hanged Man for as long as they’d want. Hawke had told Fenris she’d put twenty sovereigns aside, and they were his if he decided to leave Kirkwall as long as he dropped in for a goodbye. The money sat in a carved box on a shelf in her bedroom, but that was mostly a ploy to make sure he wouldn’t disappear without a word. There wasn’t much tying him to this place, only a vague hope that Danarius might be drawn out to face him. Hawke also made a weekly donation to the clinic, both of coin and supplies, but Anders was always careful not to keep too many valuables around.

They threw the chopped and bruised herbs into the largest pot, filled it with water, then lit the fire in a tiny hearth under the old mine vent and left the potion to simmer. Anders flipped a few dozen pages to the next recipe, this one written in a barely legible spidery scroll. Hawke began to chop spindleweed leaves into ribbons and Anders plucked the flowers from the embrium bunches and ground them into fine dust. The crackle of damp firewood mingled with the patter of rain, and it felt peaceful, domestic, like a moment from another life, long forgotten.

“Thank you for doing this,” Anders said. “This will help a lot of people.”

“You don’t have to thank me all the time. I’m sure any of your patients would jump at the chance to lend you a hand. A lot of them have a crush on you, you know.”

He gave his mortar a rueful smile and ground at the herbs harder.

“The rest would just enjoy being dry and by the fire,” Hawke added.

“I hope you don’t think I’m too selfish for not inviting them to stay here. I really need my space sometimes. They’re here all day near every day, and if I don’t rest properly…”

“Anders, I live in a mansion. I’ll hardly call you selfish because you sometimes have this dank hole to yourself. Besides, I’ve missed this. I think I’ll buy those alembics after all. I can set up a little lab on my spare desk and make my own potions and poisons. For once I’d know we’re not about to chug some knock-off crap mid-fight. And it’ll be yours to use if you need a tincture for a patient.”

“Where did you learn all this?”

"From my father, mostly. That was one of his dreams: Hawke the Herbalist. Or, as a fallback plan, Hawke the Historian. See, my father was a very learned man, like you."

Anders laughed heartily, and she stared at him, confused, frowning.

"Sorry," he said. "I've never thought of myself as a learned man before. Of course, I did miss a few lessons here and there while I was on the run."

"Of course you are. You're a healer."

"I know all there is to bones and guts, it’s not the same as… elven ruins or ancient languages. I'm no scholar."

"Well, my father was. When we lived in Denerim he worked for a chantry brother who'd travelled all around Thedas for his research. He wrote books about it, I have one back in the mansion. He's working on the second volume right now. Father used to assist him - translate old texts, restore manuscripts they'd found. He was going to travel more when the twins grew up a little, and once he saved up enough we were going to open our own shop, me and him. Potions and Parchments, that was another idea for a name. He taught me what herbalism he knew. He was just about to start me on languages and history when Bethany came into her magic and we had to move. Father tried not to show he was upset, of course. Bethany was distraught enough. But he'd had his heart set on that city life dream, on us being respectable shopkeepers. He'd always thought that's what Mother wanted, too. Neat city apartments, fancy parties. But, honestly, I think as long as she had him, she was happy anywhere."

"What about you? Did you have a dream?"

"Me? I suppose I always thought we'd end up in the army, me and Carver. He was set on going, and I wouldn’t let him enlist by himself. And it did sound like a dream. Getting paid for inflicting violence, instead of getting in trouble. We thought we'd love it."

She'd actually enjoyed it a lot. The camp life wasn't that different from noise and chaos of their household. She was proud to see her little brother come into his own, finding his place among veterans and already taking a few green recruits under his wing, towering over them, making sure they weren’t bullied, weren’t homesick. Bear loved the company of other mabari, the fun of travel and camping itself, all those new smells to explore, and, if Hawke wasn't quick enough to stop her, to roll in. Hawke herself drank in campfire stories, made friends and cheerfully exerted herself at training and sparring. She’d had a great little tryst with the sergeant of the archers and was making eyes at a cute Grey Warden, a boy barely older than Carver but so sweet she couldn’t stay away. She’d loved the first few skirmishes, the ones they'd won, when they ripped through darkspawn and their blades steamed with black blood. She used to worry she'd freeze up when it came to really ending a life for the first time, but the enemies were monsters, deformed and snarling. They eased her into it.

She even received a commendation: she'd stealthed across the battlefield and backstabbed an emissary before it could finish its spell. And the final battle, Ostagar, grizzly as it was, didn't hit her quite as hard as it did Carver. Then again, Carver had been, essentially, still little more than a child.

"Why haven’t you married?” Anders asked. “Before the Blight, I mean. You're so…"

"Old for a spinster?"

"Wonderful," he said softly. "There must have been admirers."

"There were. Just, nobody I trusted enough to bring home to my apostates."

"I keep thinking all of you grew up so free," he said. "But you weren't truly, were you? The shadow of the Circle had always been upon you."

"In a way, I suppose. It was safer to keep to ourselves. I didn’t want marriage, anyway. Why tie yourself down when you can have every singleton in town whenever you want? Never seemed worth it. Did you ever want to marry?"

"Of course. Well, before the Circle. Later there wasn't any point dreaming about it."

"It's not impossible, my father did it! Actually, that had been my fantasy when I was younger."

It had been a trying time, just coming into her womanhood. They'd moved to Lothering and she had no friends, nothing familiar there. Carver, bereft of his twin's company and their father's attention, clung to her constantly. Having a chubby, loud eight year old tag-along who used gaps in his baby teeth to spit as far and often as he could didn't improve her standing with kids her own age. She was lonely, her changing, constantly aching body tormented by uncomfortable surges of painful lust, and she had built that fantasy about her own perfect prince, the one who'd see her unique worth.

Anders put down the tools and looked at her with a kind, encouraging smile, and she told it out loud for the first time in her life.

"I used to imagine a runaway mage would come to Lothering. It was on the Imperial Highway, on the way from Kinloch Hold to Denerim, so why not? It would have been raining, just like this, because, well, Ferelden. So he'd have hidden in our barn. I'd come in at dawn to feed the animals, and he'd be startled, he'd have a blade of flame in his hand, ready to defend himself. So I'd know what he was. And he could see I wasn't afraid, he could trust me. I'd bring him food and Father's old clothes, from the pile we were supposed to mend or make into something for Carver and never did. Some blankets for warmth, a book to pass the time. Bear was a puppy, I'd bring her to nap by his side, she was better company than hens and goats. I'd promise him nobody would find him there, he was safe, I’d protect him. And he, of course, would fall in love with me right away."

She laughed awkwardly, her voice squeaky with embarrassment. Anders was still smiling, and he didn't seem bored or bemused.

"How could he not?" he said. "And then?"

"I'd shelter him there for a few days, until he was in good health and spirit. We'd talk about everything. He'd tell me all the things about the Circle that Father wouldn't. He'd show me magic, not Bethany's childish spells, real magic, fire and ice and lightning. I'd tell him about my secret fears, and he'd make them all go away with a few words. And then, oh, I had so many ideas about what we'd do next."

She remembered those rare moments of solitude, just her and docile barn animals quietly breathing into the cool pre-dawn air. How her thoughts had ran in fevered circles, how her hands had wandered. She’d imagined that secret lover, lounging in the little nest of blankets and home comforts she’d make for him just in that corner. Their first kiss, his lips on hers, their breath and very souls mingling, his palms cupping her sore breasts, and then his hand between her legs, where her flesh throbbed and begged for touch.

She had never quite envisioned his face, and now, of course, the imaginary runaway was Anders: in tattered Circle robes, barely a man himself yet, as lonely and needy as she'd been back then.

"Basically we'd rut in the barn straw like horny pigs," she explained. “And then I'd tell my parents that I had a mage lover and they'd be ecstatic and he'd live with us forever and fuck me every day in my bed. The end."

"The Circle would have his phylactery," Anders said. "The templars would be days behind at most. No runaway with a sliver of conscience would stay anywhere near an apostate family."

"Like I said, it was a fantasy," she said curtly.

“I didn’t mean - it’s just,” he laughed and shook his head. “You had me so caught up in it, I felt like I had to explain why I never turned up.”

She laughed along with him and reached for another bunch of herbs.

“Seriously, where were you when I was fifteen? I really could have used a good barn tumble.”

“I would have been twenty one, I was just recently Harrowed. I hadn’t run away for six years, I was happy, actually. I had a lover a few years older than me. And I had no interest whatsoever in fifteen year old girls, I’m afraid.”

“Damn,” she said, smiling. It was good to know he’d been happy in the Circle, even for a short while. That meant Bethany could be happy too.

“Three years later, when you’d be eighteen - now, that was different.”

“Too late! By then I had three dumb farmboys on the go.”

"It seems we keep just missing each other.”

"We're both here now," she said.

"Hawke,” he said in a strained voice, keeping his eyes low. “We talked about this."

"Not really. You talked at me about how you'd break my heart. I still don't know why you think that's how we'd end up. And even if we did, so what? Everything ends, one way or another. Here I am, here's my heart. Break it, if there's no other way. I don't mind. It'll heal."

"I can't," Anders said. "I can't tell you what this means to me, but I just - I can't do this."

They listened to the rain in awkward, heavy silence. Neither of them seemed to want to make the first sound. He was stirring simmering herbs in the pot, making sure not to bang the ladle against the sides. Hawke straightened the roots she'd been chopping and resolutely pushed down with the blade, and cringed at the loud crunch.

"You can go if you want, I'll finish up," he said. "You've already helped a lot."

"It's fine," she said. "Honestly. We’re friends, it’s fine."

They finished the preparations and swept the unused bits of plants into the nearest sewage stream. By then the first potion finished stewing and steeping, and they could start on straining and decanting.

When they were done the remedies were still in the pots and pans, some in bowls and mugs. Anders didn't have vials or stoppers to bottle the medicine like expensive herbalists did, and these simple infusions wouldn't keep long anyway.

He stepped outside to light the lantern and returned already followed by the first flock of patients. Each carried a cup, or a metal mug, or a chipped bowl. They held it out for Anders to ladle in a dose of the right potion and drank it right away in long grateful gulps, shuddering at the taste. Some carried it away, to their bedridden ill. One old man held out his empty cupped hands and asked just for some simple elfroot tea, just for the pain, and drank tepid liquid from his palms.

Quite a few women brought clean jars with tight lids, and Anders filled those with the bitter-smelling tea. Hawke would have recognised the scent even if she hadn’t made the concoction herself. She’d used the same preparation since she was sixteen, but now that she was rich her bedroom was stocked with pricey wax-sealed extracts that could last a year.

Which was just as well, because she’d not had a cause to open any of those vials in about that long. She had better check they hadn’t expired.

“The sooner after sex you take it, the more effective it is,” Anders told them. “Store it in the dark. It won’t be as potent after five days, please come to see me then. I should be able to make more soon.”

Then he healed the people who needed more than a cup of herbal tea. Hawke scrubbed the empty pots clean and watched him work.

With every patient he helped his face seemed to soften a little. Perhaps he simply enjoyed healing that much. Father had always said becoming a Spirit Healer was never a choice, it was a calling. Perhaps each time Anders put the world to rights, even just by taking one person’s pain away, Justice was relieved and calmed too, and it showed.

Hawke slipped out quietly and walked home under heavy cold rain, and somehow ended up at Merrill's.

Merrill sat on the floor in front of her magic mirror, and barely moved when Hawke walked in. She absently apologised for the mess and offered Hawke some water. Hawke sat next to her and shared her supper: a bag of mealy last harvest apples, the only edible thing she managed to buy on the way there at that time.

The apples were spoiling. Hawke cut out brown bits and tossed them in the fireplace, and Merrill ate her share without looking at it once.

"How do you work on this?" Hawke asked.

"It’s quite fun, actually, see, I study how it reacts to my magic. I cast and watch the colours. Like this."

Her fingers lit up and faded. She didn't use her blood, which was always a small mercy. Hawke didn't mind blood magic, it was magic just like any other. She just didn't like see Merrill bleed herself - the calm slices of her knife, the way her face didn't even flinch at the pain. Or the big one, when she had to use the blade of her staff, impaling herself through the stomach in a disturbingly practised motion.

"It's not changed," Hawke said. The silvery milky surface didn't reflect much. She couldn't even see their faces in it.

"You don't see it? Must be because you’re a shem. Human, I mean, sorry! I wish you could see, it's so beautiful…"

Hawke rested her head on Merrill's bony shoulder, cushioned her cheek on the fur pauldrons and watched Merrill work, her fingers moving, glowing.

"Boys are the worst," Hawke blurted out at some point.

"Oh, I agree, I think girls are often better," Merrill said. "I like both, though, they’re all nice. Well, the nice ones are."

"Can I sleep here tonight? I’m quiet, I swear I don’t snore."

"Of course. You’re family. I understand, Hawke, I get lonely too sometimes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did Malcolm Hawke work as an underpaid assistant for Brother Genitivi? Was he hiding his overeducated self right under the Chantry's nose? I don't know, why not?


	5. Romantic Gestures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke visits Fenris and performs a successful flirt interaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set at the beginning of Act 2.

For the rest of the night Hawke lounged on Merrill’s narrow bed - on top of the covers, still in most of her armour - and watched Merrill cast spell after spell and scribble something in a notebook. The writings were elvhen, just as impenetrable to her as the murky surface of the mirror that was a riot of colour to Merrill’s eyes. But there was a profound quiet joy in watching her work.

Hawke fell asleep like that and woke up at dawn with a stiff neck and feet gone numb in the draft from the door. Merrill was curled up at the edge of the bed, tucked into every inch of the space Hawke had left to her. She’d taken off her chain mail and leathers, and was dressed in a soft yellow nightshirt that left her arms bare and all her scars uncovered. Hawke traced her fingertips over the worst of the ropey lines on Merrill skin, kissed her hair and slipped out without making a sound.

She was already in Hightown, and then she suddenly knew she couldn’t go home until she saw Fenris. He was the only one without a reason to keep her friends’ secrets. She believed with all her heart he’d never betray them, but, if she stopped to think about it for a moment, she had no true cause for that faith.

The door to his mansion was barred from the inside. He could still be asleep, or having breakfast in his bedroom, not ready yet to face the world. Or he could be up and dressed, practising with his sword, doing whatever he did all day when she wasn’t dragging him around the worst parts of Kirkwall. He had a right to his privacy, he didn’t have to keep an open door for her at all times. She had to leave him be and go home.

Or she could climb up the rose vines into the broken window on the second floor, that was good too.

Hawke scaled the wall, perched a knee on the windowsill and examined the cracked glass. She could smash in just the bottom part and leave the rest. That would still somewhat protect the rotting carpet inside from the rain. Her hands were sore and sticky: some of the rose thorns had gone through the thick leather of her gloves. She licked up viscous drops of blood, carefully splayed her palm on the glass and pushed outward. Half the pane lifted from the groove in the wood and slipped out, fell onto the thick, moss-infested rug and didn’t even break.

She swung her legs over the window sill and slid under the half-pane of glass still stuck in the frame. If there had been any putty holding the glass in the frame, it had dried out long ago. Just as she was angling her body down, sliding underneath the sharp edge, the loose glass in the top half of the frame slid free and fell toward her face like an executioner's axe.

Hawke flung herself from under it, into the room, skinning her elbow against the stone wall. The glass shattered on the stone and peppered her with small shards. She fell onto the other half-pane that cracked under her with a sound like a snap of a whip.

"For fuck's sake," she groaned and shook her head to knock bits of glass out of her hair, and rolled onto her feet.

Fenris stood at the top of the stairs, eyeing her with a perplexed frown. He held his unsheathed sword, ready to fly at the intruder. He wore his black leggings, unlaced, loose and low on his hips, and nothing else.

The markings went everywhere. There was a shocking swirl of them across his chest, dense and sprawling like creeping vines. The design was symmetrical, elegant, but she couldn't look at its beauty without remembering that these were cuts in his flesh, open wounds, filled and forever bonded with poison.

"Hawke," he said in a flat hoarse voice.

"Fenris," she chirped and got up. "Sorry about that. I'll pay for repairs. If you're planning to have this repaired at all, that is."

He didn't look as skinny naked. His chest and shoulders were nicely muscled, which shouldn't have come as a surprise. His fighting style was a refined and extended version of Carver's favourite move set, and she knew well how much strength it required. There was a reason why Carver needed his triple rations in the army.

Fenris' wrists, though, were surprisingly slender, and his ungloved hands looked almost delicate on the grip of his sword. She'd seen the lyrium lines on his palms before. He often talked with his hands, and every sweep of his open palm gave her a glimpse of those radial lines running from his wrist. Now she knew he had the same markings on the back of his hands, one stretching to each knuckle and down to the fingertip. They seemed to be carefully carved to follow the lines of his bones.

"I need to talk to you," she said.

He finally lowered his sword and started down the stairs toward her.

"Don't tread barefoot here, there's broken glass," she warned and came up to meet him instead. "It might be a tad late to discuss at this juncture, but I've just realised I never asked. Why aren't you giving Anders and Merrill to the templars?"

"Could that not wait until..." he squinted at the morning sunlight through the broken window. "Well, I suppose the sun is up."

"I'm a farmer, I get up early," Hawke said. He'd definitely just been asleep. His eyes were puffy, his hair tangled and sticking upward on the back. His whole face looked soft, unguarded and heartbreakingly lovely.

"Did you think I would? They are your friends," he said.

"Aveline leaves them be as a favour to me, and that's good enough, she’s family. But, the way you feel about them, I'd like it if you had another reason. I can't hang two lives on a hope that you and I won't have a falling out."

He slung the blade over his naked shoulder and headed back to his bedroom, inviting her to follow with a gesture.

"So far, whenever we clashed we agreed to disagree," he said. "It is my hope this will continue. But I understand. Here are my reasons: for one, it's not my job to root out every apostate in Kirkwall. It's not even Aveline's job. At best, the templars should be petitioning the Viscount whenever they want the guards to pick up their slack, but that's none of my business either. I plan to keep to myself while I'm here. Secondly, although they are both undoubtedly dangerous---"

"They aren't."

"This will have to be one of the things we disagree on."

He nodded to her usual chair and went to the corner, where a dented jug full of water sat on a small end table. He drank a few gulps over the rim, and then leaned out of the window and washed his face and ears with the rest, letting water dribble out into the back garden.

She watched, mesmerised, as he rubbed his long ears with his lyrium lined fingers, washed his neck and armpits and laced up his leggings over the sharp jut of his hipbones. He picked up his tunic from where it had been hung up on the back of a chair, and shrugged it on. It was almost a relief to no longer be able to see the circles of his nipples below the triple lyrium dots.

"Do you just have one set of clothes?" she asked.

"What of it?" he said gruffly. "I wash them."

On the writing desk by the bed was his armour, cleaned and oiled, the metal parts freshly polished. It was neatly lined up in the order he would put it on: thick leather pauldrons, breastplate, belt, gauntlets. At the edge of the table was a red shiny apple. Hawke would have asked if that was all of his breakfast, but she’d intruded enough for one day.

"Merrill and Anders have already shown themselves to be weak," Fenris said. "Easy prey for the demons."

"They're not. Merrill has her demon under control."

"Of course she would think so. That is exactly how Pride demons ensnare their victims."

"She knows what she's doing. She's--"

"You smell like her place," he said abruptly. "Are you sleeping with her?"

"It’s not like that. I’m not blinded by lust, if that’s what you’re implying. Blood magic is only as evil as the mage using it, she’d never hurt anyone. Well, apart from all those unfortunate sods we slaughter when we bring her along - you know what I mean. And Justice isn't a demon at all. He's a good spirit."

"Anders himself said it has been corrupted."

"Well - what does Anders know? He'd been in the Circle for almost twenty years. They must have filled his head with all kinds of Chantry nonsense, so he’d always doubt himself and wouldn’t think he deserved to be free. How can a good man corrupt a good spirit? That makes no sense."

"In the end, that’s your call,” Fenris said. “If your judgement proves to be wrong and they become an imminent danger, I will act. But for now... Yes, I would prefer if they were in the Circle. I would feel safer if the templars were watching them, but that wouldn’t happen. An abomination and a maleficar would be put down like dogs. And I don't think they deserve it. It remains to be seen if they would. I don't suppose this is quite the reassurance you wanted from me."

Hawke shrugged, sat in her favourite chair and threw her legs up on the table, as she usually did when they drank together. It felt a little strange to do this in the morning sunlight, as if she was transgressing on some unspoken code of manners, but Fenris didn’t object. He sat opposite her and bit into his apple.

"Well, I had to ask,” she said. “It's better than nothing. I've spent - what, nearly three years now? - going out of my mind with worry about Bethany. There's nothing I can do to put my fears to rest. So, when I realised I could simply ask you a question and, just maybe, stop worrying about Anders and Merrill, I couldn't wait another moment. Silly, I suppose, but otherwise I'd just sit on your doorstep and chew on my fingernails until you woke up."

"I don’t begrudge you waking me. You’d be waiting a while; I usually sleep past noon if I can, for no other reason that I can. With Danarius, every meal and hour of rest had been a privilege to earn, and even then his lackeys could steal it from me. And later, after my escape, I had rarely dared to sleep for a long stretch. I know that in my time here I’ve overindulged. I’ve gained some habits that won't aid me in the long run. I intend to break some of those."

There were no empty bottles on the floor or on the table, Hawke noticed. No fresh sprays of glass shards or wine stains on the walls. Cutting down on indulgences seemed to already be underway.

"I was startled, of course," he said. "You, climbing into my window at what I thought was the middle of the night - it was like a scene from a tawdry Antivan play. I was... confused."

"What, did you think was coming to molest you in your sleep?" she asked with a laugh.

A shadow flickered over his face, and she wondered why he chose to tell her about Danarius' goons interrupting his sleep just now. The thought was sickening, and Hawke wasn't going to dwell on it.

"I wouldn't," she said. "Maker, Fenris, what made you think I would?"

"Some things you've said," he shrugged. "I thought you found me handsome. If I offended you, I apologise."

"Well, no, I stand by that. If you liked me I'd scale the highest cliffs of the Storm Coast if they stood between us, et cetera. But I’d ask first! And I never really thought you’d be interested.”

“Neither did I, to tell you the truth. The reasons for that are… a story for another time, perhaps.”

“You don’t have to explain why you don’t want to sleep with someone. Or, anyone. You don’t have to apologise for it. That’s what I used to tell Bethany when we started getting all those hopeful boys sighing under her window. Then, obviously, I’d run out and chase them with a pitchfork.”

He grinned a little at that.

“Yes. I never thought I’d want another’s touch. But since I met you, that’s been… changing.”

He lifted his eyes to hers, and suddenly she could see it: shameless, open lust, enough fire in his gaze to make her toes curl in her boots. She felt herself flush, caught off-guard, almost compelled to demurely look away.

“Wow, Fenris. Changing! Should I come back with a dozen roses and a couple of bards? Let’s kick this sizzling romance up a notch!”

He laughed and threw the apple core over his shoulder, unerringly sending it through the open window behind him.

“Better yet, why don’t you drop by tonight?” he said. “I’m celebrating a special occasion. I was going to invite you later today.”

“Just me or is it a party?”

“Just you. I’ve saved the last bottle of the Aggregio for this. I have one more story to tell you, and then, if you’ve not changed your mind, we could talk about this some more.”

Hawke spent the afternoon with Varric, going over the accounts for their joint ventures. A meticulously itemised bill from the Hanged Man was among the papers. According to it, Fenris hadn’t charged any drinks to the bar in the last month, but Anders still ate far too little.

“How are your wine appreciation skills?” she asked.

“Dismal to middling, but better than yours, I’m sure. I still don’t really believe you have a sense of smell.”

He gave Bear a scornful look. The dog whined apologetically and hid her muzzle between her paws.

“Don’t listen to him, Bear, you’re a good girl. I’ll bathe you tonight before I go out,” Hawke promised. “But back to my wine dilemma, I need a few bottles of something like Aggregio Pavali. Fenris is down to the last one, apparently. I’m seeing him tonight, I don’t want our cups to run dry in the middle of it. Would you and your refined palate accompany me to the Tristan’s Cellars?”

“Certainly. Fenris, huh?”

“Huh? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t get me wrong, I like the guy. But when it comes to a safe and sane choice of a companion for some bedroom fun, out of all your friends he must be… well, about average, actually, come to think of it. Hawke, you should meet more people. And haven’t you spent last night with Anders?”

“What? That’s news to me, where did this come from?”

“That’s what your servants tell me. I was about to ask, I’m dying to know the gritty details. But I was going work it into the conversation somewhat more smoothly.”

“The Feddics can’t even get the gossip right. I spent the day with Anders, I slept at Merrill’s.”

“Right, well, that’s less confusing.”

“It’s not like that with Merrill. It’s sisterly.”

She regretted the word as soon as she said it.

“I know you miss Sunshine,” Varric said. “Maker knows, I get it, even I miss that shit Bartrand sometimes. But you do remember that Daisy, though a ray of sunshine in her own right, isn’t your baby sister? She’s a Dalish blood mage. She’s here with an agenda we don’t know much about. Her own people think she’s nuts for even coming close to that mirror thing. You’re the only one who keeps encouraging her.”

“Well, maybe someone should. Maybe everyone needs at least one friend who’ll have their back no matter what, no questions asked.”

“Maybe. Just make sure you know exactly why she’s your friend. And, about Anders and Fenris… You do know what you get if you chase after two nugs at once, right?”

“Do you get a huge bowl of hearty nug stew?”

“Nope. You know, I’m glad me and you never went there. I have enough heartache in my life.”

He stared at the pages, pointlessly shuffling them between two piles. His face was almost as familiar as a face of a sibling by now, after three years of fighting, drinking, scheming and sweating over taxes together.

“You should tell me, you know,” she said. “Your Heart’s Dark Secret, or whatever the title of that book would be. I won’t say a word to anyone, I promise, but, come on. I know you’re not really screwing your crossbow.”

“Some day I’ll tell you,” he said, still not looking at her. “Or, more likely, some day it’ll all be revealed in the shittiest, most humiliating way possible, because, let’s face it, we live in each other’s pockets, we have precious few secrets left by now. Dark or otherwise. And thanks for not prying too much. I’d return the favour, but I’m physically and mentally incapable of not sticking my nose into other people’s business. It’s a writer thing.”

“Fenris and I are just going to talk.”

“You are correct there, talking is all he’ll be good for after all that wine…”

They tasted fine vintages and exchanged gossip until dark. Hawke paid for a couple of cheaper bottles to be delivered to Gamlen. The man was going to drink anyway, she could at least make sure he wasn’t guzzling anything too dubious for once. Then she saw Varric out of the Hightown and walked to Fenris’ mansion, just a little bit wobbly on her feet.

Fenris waited for her at the table. The dusty bottle was opened and still almost full, but he seemed uncharacteristically tipsy already. More relaxed, easier with his smiles. Not slurring his words, just talking that little bit faster and louder.

“It’s the anniversary of my escape,” he explained. “Care to hear the story?”


	6. Orana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke hires a cook

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Orana and her strange neon makeup and I wish she had more to do in canon than sadly stand in a corner. How did she find Hawke's place? Where do Hightown houses get bath water? What is Tevinter cuisine like? I have so many questions.

"Typical," Anders said. "He flounces off and we're stuck on the Wounded Coast without a warrior, not scrap of armour between us."

"We'll be fine, we have Bear," Hawke said. There could be miles of slavers, spiders and Tal-Vashoth between here and home, but that hardly mattered. The worst danger was already behind them.

It's been a few days since Fenris had told her the story of his half-accidental escape. He’d been sheltered by the Fog Warriors, he was making friends for the first time in his life, confused, cautious, hopeful. And then his old master came back.

His voice had caught on the words, thick with unshed tears. He'd killed all his friends at Danarius' bidding, and he wanted her to know that. She’d promised she’d stand by him if Danarius took up his challenge and came after him. She wondered if Fenris himself knew what would happen when he saw his former master again. Maybe, if Danaruis commanded it, Fenris would turn his blade on her.

She remembered storming the old mansion at Fenris' side, and his angry, loud screams: 'Danarius, I'm not afraid of you!' A lie, she knew that now, empty bravado. He'd been afraid then, and was terrified still - of what Danarius would do to him perhaps less than of what Danarius would make him do.

She had listened as intently and calmly as she could. She’d faced the story about the Fog Warriors with the same unwavering serenity she’d listened to his accounts of being leashed, collared, starved, denied sleep, having his mind sundered by the pain of his mutilation, being named by his master, like a pet animal. She couldn’t be sure she was doing it right, but it seemed like he didn’t want comfort or pity. He kept telling her about his past, revealing horror after horror, pausing only to see if she’d flinch. She wondered if he just wanted to see if all he’s been through made any difference to her opinion of him.

It didn’t, and she didn’t know why he thought it might. But a lot of people were shy about showing old scars, unless they’d received them in a drunk brawl or on a battle field - more or less voluntarily, that is.  

Once she knew they were up against Danarius’ old pupil, she should have told the others what the real danger was. Hadriana could have had the same hold on Fenris as his master once did. Danarius himself could be there, hiding behind his puppet. But Hawke couldn’t bring herself to share those stories. They were told in confidence, but more than that, they were hers. She hoarded those confessions as proof of their friendship. There was little else he offered, just the darkest parts of himself, shared, it seemed, in his darkest moments. 

She took the right people with her, though. Merrill could grab Fenris with her blood magic if he’d turn on them. He might have never forgiven Hawke for making him a blood mage’s slave again, even just for a moment, but that was better than bringing along Varric to shoot him through the throat. They couldn’t afford anything less effective. Fenris could slay them all in one swing of his sword - except for Aveline, perhaps.

It would have been wise to bring Aveline. She was probably Fenris’ closest friend, she’d do her best to help. But Hawke had dragged Anders along instead, because he could bring Fenris from the brink of death, no matter how much they’d mangle him in a fight.

So Anders had been here to see the whole thing. He’d watched Fenris lose his composure, show fear, kill a defenceless, defeated enemy with a fist to her heart, after he’d promised her mercy. Anders was going to grumble about Fenris being an unstable, wild, untrustworthy murderer. She’d argue, he’d stop, but they’d both know the sentiment was there.

And Anders didn’t even know the worst of it.

They made their way out of the caves, scraped their soles clear of spider ichor and stopped outside.

“Where is that girl?” Hawke asked. “I thought she’d be waiting for us outside. What was her name, Orana? Oranaaa!”

“We might attract some Tal-Vashoth yelling like that,” said Merrill. “But, better us than her, so, yes, right, carry on.”

“Oranaaaaa!” screamed Hawke again. Merrill gamely joined in, and Bear howled in the same key. Their echo bounded between the peaks, but there was no reply otherwise.

“She must have gone to Kirkwall,” said Anders.

“To Kirkwall? Why? Does she even know where it is? She’s likely from Minrathous - I don’t know if they’d arrived by boat or…”

“You told her - if she goes to Kirkwall, you’ll help her. So she must have gone.”

“I obviously didn’t mean for her to go alone. I’ve not even given her a destination. I don’t think I even told her my name! Why would she take off like this?”

“She’s a slave, isn’t she? She probably did exactly as she was told her whole life. I’ve known some apprentices who were so scared of being made Tranquil, they’d followed every order to the letter, even if it obviously made no sense. They just didn’t have the nerve to question it. Merrill, can you track her?”

“I’m not a hunter, actually,” Merrill said, waving her staff at him. “In case you’ve not noticed, this isn’t a bow. Can’t Bear track her?”

Hawke gave Bear a questioning look and got a slobbery guileless dog-grin in return.

“She’s a war mabari, a fierce and deadly skirmisher,” Hawke said defensively. “She’s not trained for that dirt-sniffing business. And don’t we need one of Orana’s personal effects for this?”

“Don’t ask me! All I know about dogs is from our ancient stories!”

“Let’s not split up here,” Hawke decided. “Let’s take the most likely path to Kirkwall, see if we can catch up to her or if she, by some miracle, makes it there. We’ll stop at mine, get some sandwiches. I’ll send Bodahn to The Hanged Man and go to the Keep myself to get Aveline and the guard on the case. Anders, I’ll need you to find out if she ended up in Darktown. Merrill, you’ll have to check if she’s in the Alienage. If we come up with nothing I’ll take Varric and Isabela out here tomorrow. Hopefully three city rogues and a dog will amount to one half-decent tracker.”

They made it to Hightown just before dark, dead on their feet after a forced march through the mountain paths. Anders kept up his Panacea aura just to prop them up and heal their sprains and blisters as they appeared.

“Sandwiches, please!” yelled Hawke as she pushed through the mansion doors.

The household ignored them. The Feddics and Mother were crowded around a stool by the door where Orana sat, still splattered with blood, her shoes muddy, a cup of water in her hand.

“Mistress,” she said and struggled to her feet.

“Hawke,” Hawke said and perched on her desk. Her legs were weak with relief and accumulated fatigue, and nobody, she thought bitterly, was rushing in to offer her a stool. “My name is Hawke, please call me that. I’m glad you’re here, I was very worried.”

“Oh, so you do know her?” Mother said. “She barged in, looking like this, wouldn’t explain anything, just said she was here on her mistresses’ orders. I didn’t know what to do with her. Seemed cruel to throw her out, I thought we’d feed her at least. Marian, who is this girl?”

“Our new cook,” Hawke announced. “You wanted a cook, right?”

Mother drew a long breath and massaged her temples.

“She can stay the night, she’s obviously not in any shape to go anywhere. I’ll leave you to deal with this. When you’re done, come talk to me in my room,” she said. “Good night, Anders, Merrill.”

She went upstairs. Sandal followed her with his untroubled blue eyes and smiled at Orana again. Bodahn fidgeted restlessly, looking up at Hawke.

“Can you open up a room next to yours, please?” Hawke asked. “Just throw some linens on the bed, we’ll do the rest tomorrow. Sandal, could you draw a bath in the downstairs washroom?”

“I’ll help,” Anders said. “I’ll heat it, too.”

Hawke took Orana and Merrill to the kitchen and raided the pantry for leftovers.

“How did you get here?” she asked, piling pickles, cloth-wrapped half-loaves, cuts of ham and bits of cheese on the table. “How did you find my home?”

“It wasn’t easy,” Orana said with a small ring of pride in her voice. “But I found it. I knew that they called Kirkwall the City of Chains. Once I was out of the cave I saw those big chains in the harbour and headed for them. There were some Qunari in the mountains, but I ran and they didn’t chase me. When we travelled here from Minrathous, we always stopped in taverns and asked all kinds of questions at the bar. So I asked some elves in the city how to find a tavern, and in the tavern I asked the kindest looking human if she knew you…”

“But you didn’t even know my name!”

“I described you,” Orana made a gesture across the bridge of her nose. “And your friends. The woman told me where your home was. She even walked with me to the corner, and then went to the brothel.”

She went to the sink, grabbed a washing bowl and began scrubbing dirt and dried blood off her hands.

“You ran into Isabela, then,” Hawke guessed and dove into the cupboard in search of the jar of horseradish. It had to be there, she’d specifically asked Bodahn to make sure they never ran out. “That was lucky.”

“Oh, Hawke, everyone knows you,” Merrill said. “Or they do in Hanged Man, anyway, we’re there all the time.”

“I’m sorry, mistress, I can’t find the plates,” Orana said.

Hawke turned around. There was a pile of neatly stacked sandwiches on the table, filled with overlapping layers of thinly sliced ham and cheese, artfully studded with pickles.

“She did it so fast, the knife was a blur!” chirped Merrill from her perch on the windowsill, twirling her staff between her knees.

“The plates are in the bread box,” Hawke said, a little disturbed by Orana’s efficient calm.

“Why?” asked Orana in an affronted whisper, and quickly bowed. “I’m sorry, it’s none of my business.”

“Because dwarves can’t reach the top shelves, so everything is a bit squished low down. We’re rich now, we don’t care if our bread goes stale.”

Orana pulled out four plates and began dividing the sandwiches between them.

“Only the three of you came back,” she said. “The other man, the elf, is he - I meant to say, will he be joining you for supper?”

“Fenris went home, he’s fine,” said Hawke. “Oh, and this is Merrill, and, ah, here’s Anders.”

“Room and bath are ready,” Anders said, entering the kitchen, and smiled at the sight of the food. “Oh, good, if you can eat, please do, you need your strength.”

“Is the magister dead?” Orana asked, uncertainly shifting sandwiches from one plate to another.

“Yes,” Hawke said. “Fenris ripped her heart right out.”

“That’s sad. I always felt quite sorry for her.”

“For her? She just killed your father!”

“I’m sorry, mistress. She was just… very unhappy.”

Orana shrugged her narrow shoulders and tried to pull her sleeves lower down her wrists. She was shaking, Hawke noticed, swaying a little, gripping at the edge of a table.

Anders shrugged off his coat and wrapped it over her shoulders. The upper layer, the cropped green jacket, turned out to be completely separate from the quilted leather part, which was a long sleeveless vest. Without his feathers Anders seemed to have suddenly shrunk to half the size, like a wet cat. His arms looked surprisingly thin in the threadbare sleeves of his tunic.

Hawke had to update some of her bedtime fantasies with this new information.

“Let’s take you to bed, Orana,” Anders said. “Food and bath are probably too ambitious for now.”

They all led her to her room, gingerly holding her elbows. She moved slowly, in a light daze, as if on the verge of fainting.

“This smells like stables,” she mumbled, plucking at the collar of Anders’ jacket.

“I’m sorry about that. I live in the sewers.”

“It’s not animal poop smell, it’s mostly human, if that’s any better,” Merrill giggled.

Once in the room Hawke pulled Orana’s shoes off and tucked her under the blanket, still in her bloody dress.

“Bear, guard,” Hawke ordered and pushed Bear to lie next to the bed. “See, she’ll make sure nothing can harm you. You can pet her any time, she loves it, she won’t bite. Here, try.”

She pulled Orana’s cold hand to Bear’s rump and guided her in a couple of light pats.

“She’s so soft,” Orana murmured. “She didn’t look that soft.”

“She might try to climb on the bed once I’m out of the door,” Hawke warned. “She’s a little spoilt, I’m afraid. Just push her off if you don’t like it.”

Orana’s hand was still stroking Bear’s fur when they left.

Back in the kitchen they devoured the sandwiches, helplessly moaning with pleasure with their mouths full.

“What’s in it?” Anders asked, peeking inside the bread. “This is the best food I’ve ever had.”

“Tevinter magic,” Hawke said.

She saw him and Merrill out, locked the door and went to talk to Mother.

“You should have spoken to me first, you can’t make these decisions by yourself,” Mother said, pacing her bedroom. Hawke was grateful for being too tired to properly feel the filial guilt. “You’ve brought a complete stranger here, and you haven’t even thought to introduce her to me. Now you’ll traipse away in the morning on any of your important business matters, and it’s me who’ll be stuck here with her. Do you even realise what position you’ve put me in? What if she can’t cook, what if I simply don’t like her? Can I fire her like I’d do with any servant, or do I have to fight you on that too? Do I have to put up with her for the rest of my days because she’s part of some of your shady dealings? Oh, and, of course, think of the first impressions, think of what she must think of me now! I didn’t want to let her in, I still would love to know whose blood is all over her clothes…”

“Her father’s,” Hawke said. “He was killed today, we brought the murderers to justice. She’s an orphan now.”

Mother sat on her bed and put her head in her arms.

“See, this is why you should have told me first. I yelled at her, when she most needed comfort. Now I understand why I couldn’t get her make any sense. Poor girl, I’m glad we can shelter her. But, Marian, she’s not our responsibility in the long run. There are hundreds of orphans in Kirkwall - children, and she’s an adult.”

“I thought you wanted a cook.”

“Not an elf one!”

Hawke blinked and shook her head.

“I’m sorry, what? What’s wrong with elves? Two of my best friends are elves, you know!”

“There’s nothing wrong with elves, and it’s very good of you to be so open-minded, but it doesn’t mean we should hire one. We’re wealthy enough so we don’t need to take advantage of those poor creatures. We can hire human servants and pay them fair wages.”

“I’m planning to pay Orana a fair wage!”

“Well - good for you, but you can’t explain that to everyone. It’ll still look like we’re exploiting her. Look, after she gets her bearings, why don’t I place her with one of my friends? A household full of elven servants, so she won’t be lonely…”

“No. She was a slave until today, I’m not throwing her out of my home until I know she’s ready to be on her own. If it takes years, then that’s just—-”

“A slave? An elven slave? Marian, what if someone thinks you bought her?”

“Mother, why would you even - you can’t buy people in Free Marches!”

“Don’t be naive, Marian. It’s illegal, but not unheard of. And what about her former owners? Just because the law here doesn’t uphold their right to her it doesn’t mean they’ll accept you taking her from them. What if they come after you?”

“I killed them already, Mother,” said Hawke, more drained by this conversation than anything that happened today. “I’m sorry I didn’t speak to you first, this is just how things happened. It had never entered my mind that you wouldn’t want to help her. I guess I traipse around too much and don’t really know you anymore.”

“Marian, don’t be like this, please.”

“Let’s talk about this in the morning, I really need to clean up,” Hawke said and stomped away.

The tub in the washroom was still full and steaming, and it was a shame to waste all that labour and magic. Hawke pulled clean house robes from the linen closet and dumped her bloody leathers on the stone floor. She always cleaned them herself, just like her teachers had said: it has to be you or your squire, you have to know it’s been done right. But this time she rather hoped Sandal would at least make a start on them before she woke up.

She scrubbed herself clean, rinsed her hair, wrapped herself in the flimsy robes and padded barefoot up the stairs to her bedroom.

There, on the low seat by the wall, was Fenris, sat in a picturesque brooding posture.

She thought she’d be annoyed to see yet another obstacle between her and the bed, when all she wanted was to plant her face in the pillows and be alone for a while. But somehow just the sight of him lifted the press of fatigue from her shoulders. She tossed back her wet hair and smiled at him.

“Nobody told me you were here,” she said.

“Nobody knew. I didn’t wish to speak to anyone, so I invited myself in,” he nodded at the open hallway window. “I assumed we were on these terms now.”

“That’s fair.”

He got to his feet. His eyes skittered away from hers as he spoke.

“I was thinking about what happened with Hadriana…”

Hawke pushed open the door to her bedroom and waved him inside.

“Shh, everyone’s asleep. Let’s talk in there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hawke's approval with Fenris is over 80% by now and you know what that means: next part nsfw.


	7. The Break Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke gives Fenris her favour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part is NSFW

Without wine the conversation was short and frustrating. Fenris apologised: he always apologised, whenever he’d raised his voice at her. He talked about hatred, revenge, the way they swept him along until he couldn’t choose another course of action, until he couldn’t bear it. And then, just like that, he turned to leave.

Hawke grabbed his arm without thinking, and lyrium flared under her fingers.

Her back hit the wall, all breath rushing out of her lungs. Fenris’s armoured fingers closed over her biceps. His face was next to hers, distorted in a grimace of rage, blue-lit, like it was when he was about to strike a final blow through his victim’s chest.

He released her right away, before she even thought to struggle. He stepped back, looking more stunned than she felt, and opened his mouth, probably to apologise again. Hawke still felt the shadow of his merciless grip on her arms, still sensed the warmth of his body. He’d been so close - she could almost have smelled his hair. Before he got a word out she surged forward and kissed him.

He didn’t push her away, didn’t flinch, just returned the kiss with soft, eager lips.

Last time they spoke alone they’d almost agreed to see if her touch would be bearable to him, if his markings would hurt under her hands, as he’d feared. On another night, perhaps, he’d said. This was another night.

She kissed him greedily, dizzy with lust, moaning into his mouth, ready to grind down on his thigh if she could only get close enough without breaking her collarbone on the prow of his breastplate. She grabbed at his shoulders, sunk her fingers into his hair, pawed at his neck. Somehow, as if to prevent him from bolting, she pushed him around and boxed him against the wall, and he let her, let his head fall back against her garish wallpaper and gently kissed her over and over. His hands lightly rested on her hips, and the sharp tips of his gauntlets prickled her sides through the thin silk of the robes.

“How is it?” she asked, lightly resting the pads of her fingers on the markings running down his arm. It felt like a scar left by a badly stitched wound: raised edges where the skin had been cut, and a ropey roll of the smoother, more yielding tissue between them.

“It’s fine,” he said and reached for her lips again. She shifted her fingers to an unmarked stretch of his skin and kissed him back.

He was quiet, almost breathless against her, but he returned each of her kisses, let her lean as close as she could, let her rock against him in small motions that both soothed and stocked her need.

His lips were warm and pliant, surprisingly skilled for a man who couldn’t remember ever having sex. She’d not had a kiss that exquisite in her whole life, not even from the perfumed mouths of Orlesian nobles who sometimes journeyed through Lothering. It  a pleasure she could savour for hours. Except she was a farmer from Ferelden, a simple, horny woman, very grown up - pushing thirty - and she’d not had a decent lay in four years, since before the Fifth Blight began.

She nearly began undressing him, ripping his clothes off. She was about to hook her fingers in the buckles of his belt and pull it all undone, but, despite the maddening need, she didn’t want to rush him. If this was the first time on his memory, it was going to be a thoroughly good one.

She pulled back a little, untied her robe and let it fall open. She wasn’t wearing a stitch underneath, only the blush spreading down her neck from the heat of his kisses.

He stared at her bared skin for a very long moment. Back in her teens, even in her early twenties, she’d be self-conscious under this scrutiny, unsure if he liked what he saw, worried about his silence and inaction. Now she’d lived enough in her body to know what it was and what it could do, and she didn’t have to worry about how it looked. She stood there, legs planted, hands on her hips, and grinned at him in invitation.

He brought his wrist to his mouth, undid the small buckle there with his teeth, pulled his gauntlets off and dropped them onto her carpet. They were clean and polished, she noticed. No congealed bits of Hadriana’s insides were going to stain her nice rugs. Though of course he’d cleaned up, he’d smelled so good—

He unclasped the straps holding his breastplate and dropped that too, and shook off his pauldrons. He closed the distance between them and then his warm hands were on her, studying the shape of her breasts, the curve of her waist, curling between her legs, where she’d been dripping wet since he’d first kissed her.

She pressed against him, chest to chest, flattening her breasts against his hard muscles. He was still wearing his tunic, but even so it felt incredible to be so close to another person again, to share this kind of pleasure, to have it be him. His fingers parted her pubic hair and dipped between her folds, stroking lightly, softly, swirling her wetness around. He found her clit and smiled against her lips at her happy gasp, and let her rock on her toes against his fingers, riding out simple, soothing waves of pleasure. She clung to him, laughing, and came just like that, coating his right hand with slippery mess while his left gently rested on her back, keeping her up.

She dropped her head on his shoulder and leaned all her weight against him. He was the same height as her, which made the kisses wonderfully easy and the fit perfect, but he held her easily, so strong and solid for all his litheness. The release had cleared her head of all tiredness and worries. It felt wonderfully empty now, full of light, just like the rest of her body. Full of joy.

“More?” he asked quietly and licked at his sticky fingers, and just like that the sated bliss of the moment was gone, and she was as horny again as when they’d started.

“Oh, Maker, yes,” she gasped, and before she could kiss him again he gracefully dropped to his knees, pressed his lips to the crease of her thigh and slid his fingers inside her. His tongue snaked between her legs, over her cunt, his breath hot on her wet flesh there.

She spread her legs to give him room, grabbed for his hair to stay upright, but after the first slow lick she knew her shuddering knees wouldn’t hold her.

“Bed,” she said. They moved as one, used to each other’s minute bodily signals after many battles together. They fell on top of the covers, his head still between her legs, his hands spreading her thighs, holding her open. She already imagined the faint bruises that would bloom there tomorrow. She’d be able to secretly press on them during the day, maybe glancing at Fenris from across a table at The Hanged Man, and remember vividly how this felt.

He made no attempt to tease, just laved at her with firm, broad licks and peppered her sex with wet kisses. She guided him with twists of her hips and babble of encouragements, and he gave her just what she asked for, generously, with no hesitation, no reservations. She stroked what parts of him she could reach - his brow, his ears, his soft, soft hair - and quickly, easily came with his tongue lapping at her clit, his fingers twisting inside her.

“Come here,” she panted and pulled him into his arms, and kissed his lips, warm and slick with her juices. “Can’t tell you how glad I am that you remember how to do this. Though it’s a skill, isn’t it? You can’t forget a skill.”

“It was only a valiant attempt, to tell you the truth,” he said with a smile, still slowly running his thumb along her cunt. “I definitely haven’t done this before. This felt very new. Credit where it’s due: one of the Fog Warrior commanders was free with largely unsolicited advice on how to please a woman. Her wife was a Tal-Vashoth, apparently they’re not easily impressed. I thought I’d try.”

“Oh, I am certainly impressed,” she said wholeheartedly. He ducked his head, probably embarrassed by her melting, sappy stares, and laid a trail of kisses down the side of her neck.

“More?” he murmured with his lips against her skin.

“No,” she said and he took his hand away, quickly, as if she slapped it. She caught his wrist and tugged it to her mouth, to plant a quick kiss on his palm. “It’s your turn. What would you like? I’m dying to fuck you, but honestly, I’m game for anything.”

He pushed up on his elbows, looking at her apprehensively.

“I want that,” he said. His pupils were wide, his lips a little swollen; he looked so beautiful her heart helplessly jerked in her chest. “But I don’t wish to hurt you.”

“Nor I you, of course. Don’t worry. Even if you’re new to it, fucking is really easy. If I don’t like something, you’ll know, and I expect the same courtesy.”

He knelt up and almost absently rubbed the heel of his hand over his crotch. She could see the thick line of his erection straining under the black silk.

“Isn’t that… reckless, though?” he asked.

“What? Oh, that! No, it’s fine, I’ll take a potion.”

He nodded, fumbled with his laces and pushed his leggings down his thighs. For one moment she was almost nervous: she’d never been with an elf, never even seen one naked before. She’d heard stories about the dwarf men’s famous girth and stamina, but didn’t at all know what to expect here. What if, she thought, imagining something bizarre and fantastic - but no, humans had sex with elves all the time. There were elf men working at the Rose. She’d heard by now.

His cock, freed now, looked just like a human one, as lovely as the rest of him, dusky, smooth. There was a small thatch of white pubes at the base, but his balls were almost bare and looked velvety-soft, and she wanted to get her tongue on them, to lick him all over, to taste that drop in the slit of his cock.

He didn’t give her a chance. He was on top of her in a blink, his clothes still mostly on, kissed her and blindly poked his cock between her legs.

Wet as she was, no finesse was needed. She canted her hips and he easily, smoothly slid home, and their hips and bellies slammed together.

He hovered there, holding still, intently watching her face. She smiled, relishing the feel of him inside her, and thrust up against him, ground down against the root of his cock and set an easy, slow rhythm.

He followed her lead, but soon his hips began to stutter, pushing into her harder, chasing his own pleasure, until he slowed down with a small pained grunt.

“No, go for it,” she whispered, threading her fingers through his hair. “I want to see you. Come for me.”

He let out a sigh that was nearly a whimper and slammed into her, almost too roughly, faster and faster. She crossed her ankles over his ass and rode out every delicious hard thrust until they came so fast her head swam with pleasure. Another sweet thrill ran through her, not a real orgasm, just a shadow of the first two, and then Fenris was coming, shuddering and groaning against her.  

He rolled off her almost before he was done, and the last spurt of his come streaked across her thighs. He flopped on the bed next to her, sprawled on his back, one arm thrown across his face. She didn’t mind, still relishing the fading sensations, letting their sweat dry on her skin.

She wanted to say something heartfelt, warm, or at least funny, but nothing came to her mind. Luckily, she could express it all with one simple and dignified gesture.

She cast around for the nearest suitable object and plucked the discarded belt of her house robe from the rug.

“For you,” she said and draped it over his wrist.

Fenris quietly contemplated the red silk ribbon. His hand was shadowing his face, and she couldn’t see his expression. His cock had already shrunk, curled soft and small against his thigh. The thread of pulse at his throat kept jumping rapidly, as if he was still cresting his peak.

“It’s a Fereldan custom,” she explained. “It’s a token. Of… gratitude and affection. A keepsake. Or, some people wear it, if they want to tell the world - to brag about their conquests, or to declare something.”

She’d received her share of ribbons and trinkets back in Lothering. She’d burned most, because the last thing she wanted was for her parents to worry about her paramours getting too close and learning too much about their family. She’d kept a couple in the trunk with her other treasures: fancy lock picks, jewelled combs, herbalism manuals, her father’s books in Tevine and Elvhen that Bethany couldn’t read anyway. All of that was left in the house as they’d fled, forever lost now. She’d only ever worn one token, a plain silver amulet her army lover gave her, but that had been sold during their first year in Kirkwall.

“Not that the world wouldn’t know about this anyway,” she said. “You know how nosy our friends are, and my servants are both tactless blabbermouths. Probably all three of them, now. I bet by breakfast this would be public knowledge.”

Fenris silently wrapped the ribbon around his fist. His eyes, as much as she could see them between his fingers, looked a little wild, and his pulse wouldn’t stop hammering.

“Are you cold?” she asked. “Let’s get under the covers.”

He helped her peel down the blanket and slid under it along with her. She was going to wait a bit, give him a chance to catch his breath, cuddle up to her and snap out of his strange mood. If he carried on just lying there, silent and stiff in the least fun way, she would…

She must have fallen asleep. Not for long, since the candles were still burning, but the other side of the bed was empty and already cold.

Fenris hadn’t left. He stood by the fireplace, dressed, armoured and armed again, clearly waiting for her to wake up.

To Hawke’s quiet horror, it looked like they were going to have a serious conversation about this.


	8. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke tries to understand what happened to Fenris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set immediately after the act 2 romance scene.

After Fenris left Hawke stayed in bed a while, trying to make sense of his words. Then she got up and went to the cabinet by her wardrobe.

She broke the wax seal on the vial and took a gulp of the potion, grimacing at the taste. According to the label, this batch was only going to be good for about a month longer, and she still had five vials left. When she’d been stocking up her new fancy bedroom she’d clearly been overly optimistic about her future romantic prospects. The way things were looking now, she’d better donate the rest of the potions to Lirene’s shop. At least then some luckier girl would have the chance to use them before they’d expire.

She pulled on her rumpled robe, tied it with the first mismatched belt she fished out of the wardrobe and went downstairs, still sipping the potion. The good stuff was too bitter to down in one. Fenris had left through the front door - she’d heard it slam behind him. That meant it was left unbolted from the inside, and if Bodahn saw that in the morning he would put all of them through another lecture on proper anti-robber precautions.

Bear trotted down the corridor from the servants’ quarters and nosed at Hawke’s thigh as she finished locking up.

“I’m all right, girl,” Hawke said. “Go back to Orana, I’ll be fine. We’ll cuddle tonight, yeah?”

“She always knows when you’re not all right,” Mother’s voice said softly.

She was coming down the stairs, with her favourite painted porcelain cup in hand. She usually brewed her bedtime soothing tea in that, and seemed like she was heading to the kitchen to make another round.

“Sorry, Mother, did I wake you?”

“Your visitor did, clattering past my door in that armour,” Mother smiled. “You don’t need to sneak around, sweetheart. You’re an adult, this is your home. Your guests can stay for breakfast. You don’t have to toss them out onto the street in the middle of the night.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“It would give me a chance to meet them, too. I worry about you, you know? You’d never really learnt much about this side of life, and, trust me, romance only gets more difficult when you’re older.”

“I’ve had sex before, Mother, I assure you.”

“I know. But you’ve never let anyone into your heart. Not enough to tell us about them, anyway. That was your friend Fenris, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Hawke said, already feeling her temper rise almost against her will.

“He always seems so troubled. And he’s an elf.”

“Is he? An elf, really? Oh no, I hadn’t noticed, why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“It’s hard enough for two humans to build something together,” Mother said unflinchingly. “I can’t imagine the differences you two would have to overcome.”

“What do you want from me, Mother?” Hawke asked, clutching the vial in her fist. The edges bit into her palm, and she squeezed harder, hoping the pain would calm her down.

“I want you not to rush into anything, but you’re already taking care of that,” Mother nodded at the vial in her hand. “And I want you to let me help you.  You barely talk to me these days. Tell me about him, let me talk to him, just let me in, please. I don’t want to see you hurt. I’m supposed to guide you through these things, to teach you all I know, and I know it’s many years too late, but--”

“It’s fine. It’s done, he won’t be back.”

Bear whined at her side and butted her head into Hawke’s thigh, begging to be petted. Somehow, by some mystical animal magic, she did always know when Hawke needed comfort.

“Marian,” Mother said softly. “Sweetheart, what happened?”

“I don’t really know,” Hawke muttered. “Maybe you’re right. I’m too dumb, or he’s too broken.”

“Oh, darling. Don’t, he’s not worth it, baby. We’re an influential noble family, and he’s a squatter. I can have him driven out of town before breakfast.”

“What? No, he’s one of my best friends! I just--”

Mother’s eyes were soft, tired, worried, and Marian finally felt tears stinging at her eyes, more from fatigue than anything else. It had been a very long day.

“I’m sorry we don’t talk,” she said. “We will soon. I’ll just get myself together a little, and we’ll talk.”

“You don’t have to — you’re supposed to cry on my shoulder when you need to. You can. You’re my baby.”

Hawke swallowed down a sob and ran back into her bedroom, flung herself into the bed and, to her own surprise, drifted off within minutes.

In the morning, in the bright sunlight, everything seemed different. She touched small bruises on her legs, sniffed at the pillow, trying to catch the scent of Fenris’ hair, and got dressed, ready to head straight out. She did need to talk to someone, that was true, but there was only one person who’d understand.

Downstairs she walked into a commotion.

“It’s my kitchen now,” insisted a loud female voice. It took Hawke a moment to recognise Orana - this was nothing like her quiet meek speech from yesterday. “And I’ll arrange it how I need to, and I’ll bar from it whom I choose.”

“You can’t just - it’s like this for a reason - messere Hawke, tell her!”

Bodahn spied her in the hallway and bounded over to her, looking more distressed than he’d ever been in the Deep Roads.

“It’s Orana’s kitchen now, I’m afraid, but I’m sure we can work this out,” said Hawke. Orana followed him out of the kitchen, curtsied and went upstairs, leaving Hawke argue her case alone.

“Bodahn, old friend,” Hawke said. “This is supposed to be for your benefit, to take some work off your hands.”

“But she’s - we don’t even know her! She can’t just…”

“Please try to get along. She’s very sweet, very brave, and she has nowhere else to go. She’s all alone in the world, except for us.”

“She’s changing everything. You know my boy doesn’t like change, this will upset him!”

“Yes, of course, we should explain that to her. Perhaps she can do it more gradually. But I want her to feel at home here, to make the place comfortable for her.”

“At our expense? We’ve served you for years!”

“Not at anyone’s expense,” Hawke said through gritted teeth. Orana was coming down the stairs, carrying a rumpled heap of cloth. It took a second for the mortifying realisation to dawn: these were Hawke’s bed linens, freshly stripped from her bed.

“What are you doing?” Hawke asked.

“Mistress.” Orana bowed. “I heard you’ve had a man last night, I was just checking if the bedclothes needed changing. Is master Fenris going to visit often? Perhaps we could do something to spare the sheets? I’ll do my best, of course, but I don’t know if I can get these stains off--”

Hawke tried to stifle a groan, shook her finger at Bodahn’s smugly grinning face and fled the mansion.

The Hanged Man was nearly empty at this hour, with just a few tenants and regulars lazily conversing in the corners. Fenris was sat alone at his usual table, eating a bowl of root stew. It was still hours until the pub’s kitchen would even start cooking dinner. They’d had to have served him yesterday’s leftovers.

He saw her and froze, wary-eyed, filled spoon hovering half-way to his mouth. The red ribbon she’d given him was tied over his gauntlet, carefully secured around his wrist with a neat flat knot.

“Fenris,” she said, as levelly as she could.

“Hawke,” he answered and immediately stuffed his mouth full of turnips and dumplings - so he wouldn’t have to say any more, she suspected.

She nodded and went up the stairs, her mouth dry and her heart pounding. He must have come here earlier than usual so he wouldn’t bump into anyone from their crowd, least of all her. He didn’t want to talk, and she wasn’t ready to act like things were back to normal either.

Isabela was propped against a mound of pillows on her rumpled bed, writing in a large leather-bound journal.

“Captain’s log?” Hawke asked.

“Yup, and you bet there be dragons,” Isabela nodded.

“Fancy some shopping around Hightown and a dinner at the Rose?”

Isabela closed the journal and tied a scarf over her hair.

“You’re buying. I want a new backup blade and a steak.”

By the time they descended the stairs together Fenris was gone, and the half-full bowl of stew was left abandoned on the table.

They walked to Hightown and Hawke bought a blade of Isabela’s choosing, a silk red and blue scarf she thought would be a good match for Isabela’s colouring, and an enchanted ring, just like the one she already had and found handy. Isabela graciously accepted the gifts and presented Hawke with a silver jar of Antivan massage oil.

“Did you steal it?” asked Hawke, sniffing gooey, glossy concoction. It was cumin oil base, her favourite, with rich and spicy scent.

“Of course! If they didn’t want me to steal it, they should have priced it more realistically.”

At the herbalist stall Hawke bought two vials of preventative draught and stuffed them in her belt purse.

“Ran out, did you?” Isabela asked. “Don’t know why you’re wasting your money. Anders makes these in his clinic all the time, you can just take them.”

“You can’t just take them! They are for the needy!”

“Honestly, Hawke, just yesterday I’d argued there was none needier than you. How long has it been, years? Come on, then, who was the lucky boy? I know it’s not Anders.”

“Fine, I’ll play. How do you know it’s not Anders?”

“For one, you wouldn’t need a potion, he knows a spell,” said Isabela readily. “Besides, he’s a Grey Warden now. You wouldn’t even need a spell, there’s nothing going on there. But here’s the definitive proof: I saw him this morning, and he’s even gloomier than usual. So, who?”

“Fenris,” Hawke confessed, and was surprised by Isabela’s dramatic groan.

“No! I was this close to getting him myself! I swear I was wearing him down, another year and he’d go for it!”

“You’re welcome to keep at it, unless you think it’s weird now.”

“It’s never weird unless seafood is involved. Why, are you done with him already?”

“He’s done with me, more like.”

“That boy is a fool,” Isabela said. “You’ve been his lifeline since he came to this city. He’ll come crawling back once he’s had a think, you’ll see.”

“We’re still friends. It’s complicated. I might have…”

Hawke took a breath, trying to come up with a more oblique way to phrase her thoughts.

“I might have a magical quim,” she said with a weak grin.

“You very well might,” said Isabela agreeably. “I could look into it for you, if you like?”

“Maybe later, if I ever feel sexy again.”

Isabela took her hand and gave her a quick half-hug.

“All right, this is no longer funny. Tell me what happened.”

“I think I did something to him while we were fucking. He had… I don’t know, a kind of a vision, a flash of memories from his past. Places and faces he couldn’t recognise, and then it was all gone. He was so shaken up, he got out of my bed and ran off.”

“Oh, that! That happens all the time. Nothing magical about it.”

“It does?”

“Of course. Did that never happen to you? A sound, or a smell, and suddenly you forget where you are, like you’ve gone back in time and you’re in the middle of a battle, or in someone’s bed, or locked in your mother’s closet again. It passes.”

“So it’s just a bad memory?”

“Not really. If you’ve never felt that, it’s hard to explain. In my opinion it’s best to ignore it.”

“But that’s his lost memories, Isabela. His past. He can’t ignore that, can he? I don’t understand why he wouldn’t want to try to trigger that again.”

“Come on, Hawke, he was a slave. What do you think is in his past, apart from beatings, rapes and drudgery?”

“You think he’d been--” Hawke muttered, feeling faintly sick.

“Don’t you? Hawke, when I told you about my husband, was that ambiguous, too?”

“No, I understood about your husband,” Hawke said, squeezing Isabela’s fingers. “I’m so glad he’s dead.”

“Sometimes he isn’t. Sometimes a lover grabs me just so, and I’m nineteen again and scared to death. But that’s rare now. The key is to always be on top.”

It was almost impossible to imagine Isabela afraid. She was a tidal wave, unstoppable and unapologetic, and it pained Hawke to think there was a time she’d been at a monster’s mercy, that she hadn’t been born free and strong like this. That there was another reason for her to always be on top, apart from, as she once had drunkenly and loudly explained to Bethany in The Hanged Man, ‘better angling precision at high speeds’.

“Fenris has that look, you know?” Isabela said. “I can’t explain, but I’ve seen that plenty. And that’s exactly what they do in Tevinter. Every magister has pretty slaves kneeling at their feet, both at home and in public. Boys for men, girls for women, waiting for their master to put them to use. It’s a statement that the magister is virile and sensual, but their line is not polluted by bastards.”

“But you always joke with him about it. About Danarius oiling him so he’d glisten.”

“Sure. We have a choice: to joke about it or to cry about it. I know which I’d rather do.”

“So, being with me reminded him of Danarius,” said Hawke. “That’s what he saw while we were fucking.”

She remembered Fenris talking about the stain Danarius had left on his body and soul, and felt it herself - something revolting and dark slithering under her skin, the kind of guilt she couldn’t imagine being rid of. Some things he’d said made an awful kind of sense now. She’d not cared enough to see the signs, and she’d made it worse. She shared the blame now. Even if Fenris ever wanted touch her again, she wouldn’t have the guts to risk it.

“I’m sure it’s nothing you did,” Isabela said. “If he’d not been with anyone since, just the slap of skin on skin could have brought it on. This isn’t your fault. Don’t make this face, you look just like your dog. So, come on then, what’s he like in bed?”

“What? I’m not telling you!”

“Why not? I bet he’s so intense and focused. Probably too quiet though. Oh, does he have markings on his cock? Do they just go straight down to the tip or do they curl around?”

“He doesn’t! Isabela, do you remember what they are? He couldn’t have possibly survived that sort of a wound!”

“I don’t know how he survived the rest of it, either. For all we know it’s possible with blood magic. Does he--”

“I’m not going to tell you anything. It’s like me asking you about your time with Anders!”

“I’m happy to dish. Sure you don’t want it to be a surprise when he throws himself at you?”

“He’s not going to do that.”

“Oh, he will eventually, he’s only a man, and I’m sure you know he’s mad about you. So, where to start? Good length,” she spread her palms, and Hawke blinkered herself with her hands to avoid looking, but still managed to get a glimpse and file it away in her memory. “Nice curve. I love that pale Anderfels skin he has, the way he flushes all over, the way his ass glows after a slap. His stomach and thighs are white as milk, and his balls under the blond fuzz have just the cutest pink blush. Though they’d be blue by now, I guess.”

“Stop, shut up,” Hawke begged, helplessly giggling despite herself.

“So, so good with his mouth. You’re in for a treat. And his hands! He was literally making money hand over fist in the Pearl. His sparkly fingers were the attraction of the season.”

“Wait, was he working in the Pearl?”

“Oh, Hawke. What did you think he was doing in the brothel, sampling local cheeses? He was an apostate on the run, trying to save up for passage to Kirkwall. He worked very hard. The Blooming Rose had been trying to hire him since he came here, he’s that famous in the right circles. He’s lost a lot of muscle, though, he used to be quite buff. And bendy. Do you think he’s still bendy? You’ll have to tell me if he is.”

“No, shut up, please, this is wrong. I shouldn’t listen to this, I shouldn’t be laughing! If anything, I should be sitting in my room pondering why everything I touch turns to ruin.”

“It doesn’t,” Isabela said and laced their fingers together.

Hawke swallowed the next whiny complaint, tipped her face to the sun and breathed for a while, inhaling the scents that wafted from the stalls: Antivan spices, Orlesian soaps, fresh pastries. She wasn’t the one who’d been hurt, and she wasn’t the one who needed comfort. She was rich, healthy and free, holding hands with the most beautiful woman in Kirkwall. Her mother wanted for nothing, and her friends were going to meet her tonight for cards and booze, and even if Fenris had stared at her like a startled deer earlier, he was still wearing her favour. It had to mean something.

“Maybe it doesn’t,” she said. “Do you want to get drunk before noon and watch the city guard do sword drills?”

“Sure. It’s been days since Aveline last yelled at me, I bet she’s bored. Do you know she has a crush? Her courtship skills are absolutely tragic. We have to intervene, Hawke. We must save her from herself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently it's possible to have flashbacks of the memories that had been repressed, and immediately have them repressed again... Fenris is really coping remarkably well, considering. 
> 
> I find it kind of amusing that he keeps saying he's "left" Hawke even though they'd just had sex once, and might have had their "Hey, I'm not proposing marriage here" conversation. They weren't exactly "together", but still, bless your romantic heart, Fenris.


	9. Dissent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are a little tense after Hawke's night with Fenris. Also, there are corpses to deal with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during Dissent quest in Act 2

“Typical,” Fenris said. “He makes a mess, runs off and leaves you to clean it up.”

“We didn’t actually clean up last time,” Hawke reminded him and hauled another iron-clad, clanging body onto the pile. “We just left all the corpses strewn across the Chantry. This is the first clean-up we’re doing.”

It started as a clandestine mission to gather evidence of a plot to sunder the mind of every mage, as Anders had put it. It ended the way most their adventures did - with a bunch of corpses. They couldn’t leave the templar bodies strewn about the tunnels. If Meredith knew the tunnels existed and kept them there for some strategic reasons, she’d have proof that the Mage Underground had found them too. She could have the tunnels collapsed, and Hawke couldn’t allow that. These could still be of use.

They were going to hide the bodies under rocks in a remote nook for now. Tonight Hawke would come back - with Anders, or Merrill, if Anders hadn’t calmed down yet, or with a bucket of oil. She’d give the templars a proper Andrastian burial, scatter the ashes and drag the plate to Darktown, and then probably peddle it to Coterie. They’d appreciate quality armour, even if they’d have to hack the templar sigils off the breastplates.

“Why do you think it bothered him so much?” Varric asked. “We’d had bigger pile-ups before. As carnage goes this was rather light.”

“He scared a child, their victim, an innocent,” Hawke said. “He’s a gentle soul, of course he’s upset.”

“Oh, come on. Mistakes happen. If you’re going to fight, eventually you’re going to clip friends and bystanders. It’s just a given, we never discuss who doused her best friend with a smoke bomb, or whose bolt ended up in which ass last month…”

“I would have been more annoyed if it had scarred,” Hawke said. Anders had expertly closed that wound right away, but her left butt cheek had itched for days.

“Please, Hawke, ass scars are wonderful ice breakers in bed. I’m just saying, there has to be more to this.”

“Anders lost control over his demon, and it terrified him as it should have,” Fenris said. “Although, I don’t know what else he’d expected. This was bound to happen sooner or later.”

“Nah, Justice often comes out to play in battles,” Varric said. He kicked a body over, searched it and threw the bloodied coin and jewellery onto a rag they had laid on the floor, to wipe and count the loot before sharing and pocketing it. “You don’t notice, because you’re in the thick of it. We usually stand together, I see it. When we’re done he stops glowing and carries on as usual. He’s as battle hardened as they come, he’s killed hundreds just by your side, and Maker knows how many before, with the Wardens.”

“Wardens kill darkspawn, that doesn’t count,” Hawke said distractedly. “Bear, stop walking over blood, you’re dragging your paw tracks all over the place. Come here.”

Bear was getting antsy, unnerved by the thick smells of fresh slaughter. She was always restless underground, which is why Hawke hadn’t taken her to the Deep Roads. She shouldn’t have brought her here either. She beckoned the dog to her, wiped blood from her paws with Ser Alrik’s skirts and shooed Bear off to sit in a dry corner.

“Well, still. That girl was the first I’ve seen him feel bad about. Because she’s a mage, you think?”

“We kill mages all the time.”

“We kill blood mages. The very things that give good mages like him the bad name. That girl is one of his people, though. And you know, I love the guy, he’s a great friend. But you must have noticed, he’s changed lately. I have to wonder, does anyone even matter to him anymore, apart from his mages? Don’t you think something is a bit wrong with him?”

Hawke shrugged and leafed through the papers from Ser Alrik’s pouch.

“I don’t know. Look at us, for example. We don’t feel bad about anyone we kill. Do you think something is wrong with us?”

“At least I have brain damage, according to my healer.” Fenris threw Ser Alrik’s body on top of the others and began wedging dangling dead limbs between the corpses to make the pile more compact. “You two really have no excuse for your callous behaviour.”

He let them silently stare at him for a long uncomfortable moment.

“It was a joke,” he said finally. “You used to enjoy my deadpan delivery. Perhaps this was bad timing.”

“It’s the smell,” Varric said and kicked a loose bit of intestine toward the pile. “Wreaks havoc on my sense of humour.”

They piled a wall of stones over the corpses, pushed loose gravel over puddles of blood and sprinkled dry dust over them. It wasn’t much of a cleanup, and if someone would specifically search here for a reeking pile of fresh bodies, they wouldn’t be stumped for long. But they only needed to make sure that whoever would be sent to find Ser Alrik’s party would see the tunnels empty and hurry somewhere else.

“The Hanged Man?” Varric offered. “First round on me, after I change my boots. I still have templar guts under the buckles.”

“I better take these papers to Anders, see how he is,” Hawke said, and Varric nodded.

“Bring him around. We need to shake him out of his weird mood. I want our fun Blondie back.”

She expected Fenris to bid his goodbyes too, but he was still trailing after her as she turned to Darktown.

“Thank you for helping,” she said. “I don’t know why I asked you to come on this outing in aid of mages.”

“I’m glad you did. It’s good to see you again.”

They had both carefully avoided each other for a few days after their tryst, but she had missed him, and he eagerly agreed to come along when she asked. Her heart still jumped whenever she saw him, and for that first moment she could only grin at him dumbly and think that she’d touched him, she’d kissed him, she’d had him inside her. But things have settled between them, and he seemed calmer and more relaxed than before, if anything. Of course, Hadriana’s death must have had something to do with that.

“Did Anders really say you have brain damage?”

“He thinks that’s what memory loss points to. I always thought it was the pain of the ritual that took everything from me. That I was too weak, I couldn’t withstand it and keep my mind intact. But he believes whatever was done here might have been the primary cause.”

He pushed his hair up and tapped at the lyrium dots on his forehead, at the exact spot where the templars branded the Tranquil.

“That makes no sense,” Hawke said. “Brain damage? You’re the smartest person I know.”

He looked slightly dismayed at that, as if she paid him a heavy-handed compliment.

“It doesn’t matter either way,” he said. “He can’t fix it, whatever it is. What’s gone is gone.”

“I didn’t know you went to him about this.”

“It was just a thought. Nothing came of it. Does your offer of reading lessons still stand?”

“Of course! You can come tonight, it’s about time my library saw some use. I just need to see Anders first.”

“I’ll come with you. I have some words of support for him.”

“What?” she laughed, expecting a punchline, but he seemed serious. “Fenris, you hate him.”

“I don’t,” he said with a frown. “I know what hate is, and I don’t use the word lightly. I hate Danarius. I hated Hadriana. Anders, however? He doesn’t occupy enough of my thoughts to qualify. I dislike his self-righteousness. I despise his hypocrisy and wilful ignorance of all that doesn’t suit his ideas. His belligerence annoys me, but that, at least, I understand. I’ve had a lifetime of holding my tongue too. I’m sure back in the Circle he wasn’t allowed to mouth off like he does.”

“He’s not mouthing off. He’s trying to make compelling arguments, to change people’s minds. To show the mages don’t deserve to be treated this way.”

“Then he’s a fool. Circles aren’t there because mages deserve them, but because the alternative is another Imperium. Why do you even humour him? What does he think he can achieve? Had your Andraste freed the slaves by whining about rights and fairness? Nobody thinks slaves deserve their shackles. Slavery exists because power makes it possible, not because nobody made a compelling argument against it.”

“You’d be surprised,” said Hawke. In her experience, public opinion on what was right and wrong, what was just and what was monstrous, could make as much difference as the laws of the land. People were a lot quicker to do awful things if they thought them justified, deserved, or at least if they knew none of their friends would disapprove.

She remembered an elven family that had lived in the stables in Lothering for a few years, doing whatever work was available for whatever pay was deemed good enough for them. Every time the village struggled to scrape up their taxes the idea of quietly selling the rabbits to a wandering slaver gang would be floated about, and always lifted the spirits a little. Fucking rabbits, someone would say. Always stare at you like they’ve something on their mind, I swear. We’ve put up with them long enough, that money’s ours, earned.

She decided to argue this point with Fenris once she had a better example to bring up.

“Regardless, by now I can tune him off like a buzzing fly,” Fenris said. “I admire his courage and skill. I understand why you’re fond of him. I don’t mind him most of the time, and right now I have useful advice for him. I know what it’s like, to be compelled to kill against your will and judgement. I have a speech already worked out. It’s about accepting one’s limitations.”

“I don’t think he’ll be open to that. Maybe once he’s calmed down.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” he agreed easily. “He does hate me, after all.”

“Well, like you said, it’s the wrong word.”

“No, Hawke, he hates me. He’s afraid of me. He thinks I’m a danger to his cause. I’m certainly a danger to his fantasies of the world full of peaceful, harmless free mages. He sees what he is, what they all are, every time he looks at me.”

He spread his elbows to show off the markings on his arms.

“And now he’s jealous as well. Even though - even though it’s over between us. Just the thought of me being with you is eating him alive, I can tell.”

“He’s not interested in me like that,” Hawke said.

“He is. His choice not to inflict his demon and his struggles upon you is the only reason I have any respect for him.”

“Does it bother you?”

“That he hates me? No, not at all. He’s not a threat, and he’s civil enough for your sake. It’s a lot stranger to be…” he gestured between them with his right hand, the one with the red ribbon on the wrist. “This. Liked. Having friends. I’m sure I loved my family, my sister, and they must have — but I don’t remember. So this is odd. Awkward, like new armour. Sometimes I don’t know what to say.”

“Sometimes I don’t know what to say either,” she said and let herself briefly touch the red cloth, and took her hand away before he had a chance to react, freeze or flinch. “No, I meant me and Anders. Whatever that might be. Are you jealous?”

“I’ve no right to be.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I’m not,” he said. “I’ve had my chance to be happy with you, it’s gone. Anders is a poor choice, but if that’s what you want, I want you to have it.”

#

Later she sat on the clinic floor among Anders’ scattered possessions, watched him skim through the paper she brought, and tried to see him the way Fenris did: as a jealous, annoying, mouthy hypocrite. It seemed an incredible mental feat to reduce him to something so dull and petty. He was a fiery, incandescent presence, even without the confused Fade spirit illuminating him from within.

“This isn’t what I’d expected. Perhaps the Divine really could be a friend to the mages. Perhaps, with Ser Alrik gone, Meredith could be reasoned with,” Anders said. “I will take this to the Grand Cleric immediately. Now there’s proof that it wasn’t just one of my delusions.”

“Why would you say that? You know you’re not delusional.”

“Sometimes I wonder. I’m a healer, Hawke, I know I’m not well. It only takes two months of solitary to fracture a mind beyond hope of mending. I’ve had a year. Even before Justice, I knew I wasn’t the same I used to be. I remember things that can’t be right. There was that cat that killed templars… And the way people react when I talk about the plight of mages - like they don’t believe me. Like it couldn’t possibly be as bad as I remember, as everything I still see every day. The beatings, the rapes, the mutilations, the life-long imprisonment - nobody seems to care, as long as it’s happening over there, in the towers. As long as it’s just the mages who suffer. It’s enough to doubt myself. What if I’m imagining this? If it was real, people would care, wouldn’t they? What if I’m imagining the injustice of it, and we really do deserve it?”

“I think you just give people too much credit.”

“No, I’m not. There’s you. You believe me, you’re willing to help. You’re one constant bright light in all of this. As long as you believe, I know I’m right. I know the fight is worth it.”

There was unabashed affection in his eyes. She stared back, not even trying to hide her longing, until he blinked and looked away.

“I do have a stake in this,” she said. “Bethany is in there. And I have a bone to pick with you. Five mages, Anders. You told me you personally led five mages to freedom through those tunnels. And not one of them was my sister. I thought you knew what it’s doing to me, to have her there. Why wasn’t she the first one you rescued? Why am I only now hearing that this is even possible?”

“It’s not that simple. There’s her phylactery, to start with. Sometimes we can tamper with it, make it seem like it stopped working, and then it’s easy. We can make it look like a suicide.”

“How? What about the body?”

“The tower has windows that face the sea. All we need is for the mage to leave a note on their pillow, and nobody would question what had happened. Even back in Kinloch we had plenty of that, and here is worse. But if we did that, Bethany couldn’t stay in Kirkwall, unless she never saw the light of day - and that’s just trading one prison for another. Sometimes we only manage to destroy the phylactery, and then the templars know it was an escape. Mostly even that is impossible, and the only chance for the mage to get away is to be on the boat across the sea before the templars give chase. Either way, you and your mother would have to leave Kirkwall well in advance, and never return. Bethany doesn’t want to uproot her again on a slim hope.”

“But Mother would agree in a heartbeat! She’d do anything to have Bethany with us again. I’ll ask her, she’ll say yes…”

“Bethany doesn’t want that. We talked - she didn’t even want to speak to me at first, she didn’t want to get in trouble. She said you’ve both sacrificed enough, and your mother deserves a real home, comfort and peace after all she’s been through.”

“So, now Bethany would sacrifice herself for us? How is that better?”

“She really seems quite content there,” said Anders flatly. “She says it’s a relief to stop running.”

“Well,” Hawke said, at a loss. “Well then. Do you need a hand putting this mess back together?”

He’d been elbows deep in his trunk when she’d arrived, muttering to himself and sorting everything into two piles. The keep pile was mostly salves, potions and carefully prepared bandages, boiled and rolled. The trash pile had thick socks, an old stretched scarf, a pair of winter mittens, a beat up bronze bangle, a folded jacket of fine blue velvet, a small rag doll, a cat collar, a stack of letters bound by string, a small, dirty embroidered pillow - and that was just on the top.

“I’m thinking about leaving town,” he said. “After I see the Grand Cleric, I’ll go somewhere I can’t hurt anyone. Must travel light.”

“Don’t.”

“It’s all gone wrong. You’ve seen it. Me and Justice - we’re a monster. An abomination like any other. An example of why mages like me should be caged. How can I even trust myself to keep healing? What happens if he - that creature - turns on a patient?”

“Is that likely?”

“How can I know that? I was certain what you saw today was impossible. To attack an innocent girl…”

“Well, look,” she said. “What will happen to all your patients if you leave town? It’s not like they can go to a different free spirit healer next door, right? And you know what would have happened to Ella if we weren’t there. And what about the other mages you can rescue?”

“I can help from afar. I was going to write down my thoughts, put together a manifesto…”

“Don’t leave. Put this all back. It’s not trash, it’s things you need. I remember the boy who gave you this doll, you saved his life. You’re needed here.”

She picked up the pillow and the doll and thrust them into his hands, and he listlessly took them and dropped them back into the trunk.

“I’ll think it over,” he said. “I suppose Fenris was overjoyed that the abomination has shown its true colours.”

“Actually, he was going to come over to give you some supportive advice, but I thought you’d just bite his head off in this state. He thinks you hate him. You don’t, do you?”

“Well, he thinks that me and my kind are too stupid and too evil to be allowed to roam free, and that all we want to do with our lives is to oppress him somehow. So yes, I’m uneasy that he’s so close to you. The man is a violent remorseless murderer. He cares for no one but himself, not even the people he should want to fight for. Not the other elves, he doesn’t even want to go to the Alienage to sully his eyes with the sight of their suffering. Not the Circle mages who are as good as slaves. He has no moral code to speak of, he steals, lies and breaks his own promises. His only goal is to exact sadistic vengeance whenever he has an easy chance. Did you see his face when he tortured that slaver?”

“It was a slaver, they’re scum,” Hawke shrugged. “Besides, I asked him to do that.”

“Did you ask him to enjoy every moment of it? He stood in the middle of the Gallows, the worst of the Circles, he looked at the captives, the beaten, the Tranquil, and he declared he saw no abuse there. If we continue our fight, it’s only a matter of time before he decides we’re taking the cause of mage freedom too far. What happens then? What if - Hawke, I know it’s a terrible thing to imagine, but I can’t shake this fear. What if we come to a direct confrontation, and he chooses to fight for the templars? If you have feelings for him, will you be able to oppose him? If you’d have no choice but to kill him or let him kill you--”

“Is that what keeps you up at night?” she asked, laughing, but his eyes were deadly serious, and so very tired.

“Among other things,” he said. “Granted, mostly it’s the darkspawn nightmares. But I think about this a lot.”

“Well, I think where Fenris stands on that day will completely depend on us.”

“Why take that chance? You know he only stays in Kirkwall for you, he’d leave if you told him to. Waiting for Danaruis is a ruse, you saw how afraid he was of that hapless underling Hadriana. Fenris doesn’t want to confront the magister. He wants to be near you. He’s beautiful, of course, I understand why you’re drawn to him, but can he even love you, the way he is? We’ve not talked about this, and I know it’s none of my business, but there are rumours. He’s already hurt you. Would you let him do that again?”

“Maker, I wish you made an effort and got along,” she sighed. “No, I’m done with romance. I think we’d all be much safer and happier if we just kept our pants on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure you can spot a flaw in my Anders build but I'm just too excited to get the glowy animation early.
> 
> Here's that beautiful moment in canon when Fenris tries to reach out for once, and it's just bad timing. Dammit, why couldn't they have more of a friendship in-game. 
> 
> Next: Hawke's pants come off again.


	10. Audacity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bunch of dwarves crash Aveline's hen party.

“Let’s get these off you,” Isabela said sweetly and yanked Hawke’s trousers down her hips.

Hawke laughed and squirmed under Isabela’s clever hands, touched her warm chest under the heavy necklace and reverently cupped her breasts through the shirt, softly worrying her nipples to feel them tighten against her palms. It was weird to still have her boots on when her ass was naked against her scratchy bed throw. Isabela’s fingers were cruelly skimming just shy of her clit, Isabela’s tongue tasted of wine and sunshine in Hawke’s mouth, and Hawke’s belly was full of thrilling joy, shaking with it, and the room was spinning a little too fast.

Aveline’s hen party was over. All the guests had left - the guardswomen headed back to the barracks, and Leandra’s friends, fellow Fereldan refugees, retired to their homes. Mother went to bed, and Aveline and Merrill were up and drinking with them well past midnight, until both of them passed out at the table, almost at once.

Hawke and Isabela laughed at them and drank their health, and then were suddenly kissing, and then they were somehow back in Hawke’s bedroom, Isabela astride her, pinning her to the bed, hurriedly divesting them both of their knives.

“This is just once, for fun?” Hawke curled her hands around Isabela’s thighs, trying to memorise every inch of her skin, every subtle shade she could see in her eyes when they were this close.

“You know me, if it’s not for fun it’s for nothing.”

“All right, sure. Let me just… take it slow, all right? Savour it. You. If I won't get another chance. Let me get some water first so I don’t puke, and then can you sit on my face? Please? I’ve wanted this for years, you know, I’m just so… I want this to be so good. I know it’s not going to be a big deal for you, I know and it’s fine, but it is for me. You’re perfect.”

She tried for a seductive, charming smile, but it came out weirdly shaky, and suddenly there were tears too, drunken pointless blubbering with no good reason to it, but there and ready to spill. Isabela sighed, batted her hands away and sat back on her heels, straddling Hawke’s legs.

“Way to kill the mood, tiger.”

“No, please, I l--” Hawke begged and reached for her, half of her mind observing in detached cold stupor as she was about to say something wrong and stupid, the very words that would make Isabela leave right away.

Isabela saved her, leaned over and sealed their lips together, and didn’t stop kissing her until Hawke stopped trying to talk.

“Yeah, thanks, but I’m not into this, Hawke,” she said, pulling back. “Whatever you think this is. Not tonight. Maybe some day, when you know what you want. Seems like you’re not even after sex. Like you’re just looking for a sharp edge to cut yourself on. Is that why you went for Fenris?”

“What? No. Why? Fenris isn’t sharp. He’s the softest.”

“Right, yes, I forgot, in Hawke’s mind Fenris is a sweet softie, and Anders is the second coming of Andraste.”

“Well, he is working toward--”

“Yes, yes, and Aveline is the pillar of lawful goodness and the least we can do for her is do all her work for her, and Varric is the next viscount of Kirkwall, and Merrill is a kitten with tiny sexy white titties.”

“I would never talk like that about Merrill’s titties,” Hawke protested. “She’s like a sister to me.”

“An actual kitten, then. How do you imagine me, I wonder?”

“I can’t possibly describe you,” Hawke made a sweeping gesture that went hopelessly askew. “You are. Can you describe an ocean? Or starry sky? They just are, and all the lesser things compare to them.”

“Maker, Hawke, never seen you be such a sloppy drunk. Sit up and drink your water.”

She did, downed a cup from her bedside table, and snuggled to Isabela’s side.

“I wanted fun, Isabela, honestly. Maker knows, I need some. Everything is just so shit. Bethany should be here, and she won’t even be at the wedding. I’ll never see my sister again. There will be a war with Qunari. Did you see the Arishok last time? Well, of course not, you never come with us, it’s too dull for you. He’s going to snap. They stare at us like we’re a disease, and they have to stay here and breathe this cursed city’s air and look at what we do to them and to each other. Elthina and Meredith are so crap at their jobs. We keep bringing them evidence, documents, look, this is what Alrik did, this is what Petrice did, and they shrug and smile. Look, there’s a murderer on the loose, he’s doing void knows what with these women’s bodies, he killed your templar, please, fucking care for a moment, but they don’t. That poor kid Saemus lost his boyfriend and then died for nothing, and now the viscount is useless too. Anders thinks he and Justice are losing their minds, Merrill’s clan thinks she’s a tainted monster—”

“We found a great dagger on that Varterral, though.”

“I just don’t know how to make this all any better. I’m not trying to — I didn’t mean for this to be… I thought this would be fun.”

“That’s weddings for you. I’m not having a great time either, keep thinking about mine. You know who might be just what you’re looking for? Our kitten.”

“Merrill?”

“Blood magic, Hawke. You’ve no idea. She can keep you still like no ropes can, and she’s so good with knives. You don’t need to break the skin to make a point. Besides, she’s the First. I’m a captain, I know how to boss around a crew, but she was born to lead a tribe, she’s a queen. She can take your breath away and give it back when she chooses, and she can set your every nerve on fire and then put your mind into this perfect calm, like the eye of all storms. And oh, those sweet tits, of course.”

“Isabela, did you fuck Merrill?”

“Yeah. Just once, obviously, for fun. So you can go for it, if you want. Just watch it, if you hurt her, I’ll take your eyes out. Friendly warning. You know, what we need is more rum. Want to go to The Rose? The party is just starting there.”

Hawke contemplated the idea. The morning would bring hangover and regrets anyway, so they might as well cut loose and see how much worse they could make both. Bear ran into the room and began bouncing toward the bed and away again, landing heavily and leaving long scratches on the polished wooden floor.

“Does your slobber demon ever sleep?” Isabela groaned, but reached out to pet the dog anyway.

“Someone’s at the door,” Hawke explained and followed Bear out to the foyer.

Varric was slumped outside her doorway, clutching a freely bleeding wound in his side.

“Help,” he said and she pulled him inside the house and bolted the door.

The wound was a knife stab, between the ribs, likely through the lung: wide and deep, with blood bubbling at the edges. Hawke stuffed her scarf against it to stem the blood flow, pressed Varric’s chilly hand over it and helped him to the nearest chair. He had shallow scratches down one side of his face, blood already sticky and cold in his hair, and he limped heavily, as if one of his legs didn’t quite hold.

“I’ll send for Anders,” she said. “I think we need him, and I want you to sit still, you’re bleeding a lot. Isabela, go grab the bandages from the washroom, there should be some salves in the cupboard there.”

Hawke scribbled a note at her desk and folded it into the buckle on Bear’s collar.

“Anders, girl,” she said as she led the dog to the cellar door. “You know the way to our Anders, right? Go get him, Bear, and hurry.”

The mabari gave an enthusiastic bark and darted away. Hawke hurried back to Varric and helped Isabela clean the wound, pack it and dress it.

“I’m trailing two dozen assassins,” Varric said. His broad face was pale, clammy with sweat, grimy and tired. “Sorry, Hawke. Thought I’d run them into a guard patrol, didn’t make it. They’ll follow me here.”

“Sure, what are friends for,” Hawke said. “This is a defensible position. Right, Aveline?”

Aveline had woken up at the commotion and blinked at them, sat ramrod straight in the seat she fell asleep in. Leandra’s embroidered napkin had left a red imprint on her face, a flower petal curling on her cheek toward her nose.

“Right, yes, I’m going to drink some tea and put my armour on,” Aveline said. “Hawke, straighten up your shirt, your tits are out. Isabela - uh, never mind, you always look like that.”

She stomped away to the kitchen, yawning and shaking her head. It was the dead of the night, and an eerie quiet lay over everything, outside the house and in it, except for their footsteps and Merrill’s even breaths. She was still asleep, her head nestled comfortably in her empty plate. Isabela glanced out of the window, reached for her blades and found empty scabbards, swore and ran back upstairs, to fish her knives from under Hawke’s bed. Hawke pulled her gaping blouse closed and fastened it with clumsy fingers.

“I didn’t even notice,” said Varric chivalrously. “Then again, in case you’re wondering to what do I owe all this pleasure. I spent the last three days in the back room of The Blooming Rose, balls deep in love of my life, Bianca. I’m all wrung out.”

Hawke eyed the crossbow and raised an eyebrow questioningly.

“No, Hawke,” he laughed, weakly, trying not to jostle his wound. “She’s real, she’s a woman. She’s married, I’m a fool, we should have stopped years ago, we can’t. So that’s my romantic secret. Pathetic, right? Every time we get together her family sends assassins after me. This time they got me good. Do you think I’m getting old? Is that it? Be honest, I can take it.”

“Maybe they finally accepted they can’t kill you with cheap mercs and hired professionals. Hang on, I better go take the family down to the cellars.”

“Don’t bother,” said Aveline. She drained the steaming mug she carried from the kitchen and thrust her breastplate at Hawke. “Help me buckle up. We shouldn’t bring the fight to the mansion. If I defend the door you’ll have no room to fight, and if they get in here we’re done and flanked, this room is no choke point. We’ll meet them outside and control the field. This is Hightown, the next patrol is never far off. We’ll only have to hold them for a short while.”

Hawke took the lit candles into the empty parlour and left the dining room dark, with Merrill out cold on the table and Varric shivering the chair, labouring to breathe through the pain. The rest of the Hightown seemed utterly empty, the silhouettes of the building blueish in the starlight, their windows shuttered and black.

Aveline drew her sword, stepped out into the night and stood in the middle of the plaza, illuminated brightly by the candle glow from the Amell mansion windows. She lifted her blade and banged it against her shield, and the sound echoed through the silent streets.

“Come on, you cowards!” she yelled, and four squat shapes sprung out of the shadows on her left and lunged at her as one.

She might not have even seen them. Hawke had spent enough time crouching in cramped hiding spots like these, waiting to line up the perfect backstab. If you were spotted like that, an armoured warrior could easily rush you before you backed enough to dodge. The tactic took a lot of nerve, and goaded like that, most rookies would jump out and try to control the battle rather than stay put and wait to be pinned and ran through. 

Aveline met them head on, as she always did, taking every blow on her shield without a single attempt to side-step them, letting the enemy expend all their strength. Hawke and Isabela used the moment to slip from the lit doorway to the shadowed nook behind the pillar, to let their eyes adjust to the dark.

“She’s so damn hot like this,” whispered Isabela into Hawke’s ear.

“Donnic owes us big time,” Hawke agreed, and nudged her, pointing at a slight movement at Aveline’s flank, by the corner of their neighbour's mansion.

“Mine,” Isabela said and darted over there, and the next second brought an agonised scream and then soft clanging of metal - not the thunderous clashing, like the wailing of the first wave’s blades on Aveline’s plate, but almost silky hissing whispers as one slim dagger blade deflected another.

Hawke waited, because the bright windows of her parlour were too good a target, and a smaller assassin could squeeze through the bars. There was soon a soft scraping sound above, light boots struggling for purchase on the roof tiles, and she flung herself up the pillar, yanking on the climbing vines like on ropes, and hoisted herself onto the roof in one smooth, graceful pull-up that, she knew, would leave her shoulders sore for days.

There were two skinny dwarves there, both little more than teenage boys. They were quietly creeping toward the windows, their blades in their teeth to keep their hands free. She stabbed one through completely undefended heart before he even reached for his knife, and kicked the other one off the roof, sweeping his legs from under him so he went down head-first.

The kid landed with a loud bone crunch, and Hawke crouched by the edge of the roof, surveying the field. Aveline’s opponents were still all alive, more or less, but she could hold them there for hours. Isabela was nowhere to be seen, which was a good thing. Hawke’s ears caught a twang of the crossbow, and then one of the beautiful, huge pane windows of her parlour exploded into a hail of shards. The assassin took a blind shot into the lit curtained window, hoping to scare up some silhouettes to aim at, and now she knew where he was. She ran across the roof, toward the dark shape half-hidden behind her neighbour’s chimney, and took a flying leap across the street.

She landed on her feet, crushing a wide patch of the tiles, and kept running. The sniper tried to stop her, rather than trying to retreat. Hawke dodged  two more bolts, took the third through the meat of her thigh, let herself scream but not slow down. The crossbow girl died still trying to loose a bolt point blank into Hawke’s throat. Hawke left the body slumped against the chimney and squinted at the other roofs, looking for more shooters. There had to be more.

“Hawke, look out!” Varric yelled, and she dropped down on instinct, without knowing what to look out for. A crossbow bolt went a palm-width high, ruffling her hair. Varric was in the lit doorway, barely standing, awkwardly propped against the door post, sending bolt after bolt at the roof to her right.

That might have saved her life, but it wasn’t the plan. He was a perfect target there. She could already see two rogues running at him from the direction of the Chantry, dual blades at the ready, and she wasn’t going to get to him in time. She rolled off the roof, only a little unbalanced by the burning in her leg - it wouldn’t really hurt until the fighting stopped, it never did - just in time to see Isabela pop out of nowhere and finish one of them with a quick slice across his throat. The second kept running at Varric, and he was only a few steps away when Anders leaned out of the door, his head pressed to his brow in a thoughtful gesture, and blasted the man across the street, toward Hawke’s blades.

“Heal him, we’ve got this!” Hawke yelled and Anders pulled Varric inside and closed the door.

Bear was barking inside the house, and Hawke decided not to worry about protecting the broken window. The mabari would take care of whoever tried to get in. Aveline was surrounded, a good ten dwarves furiously pounding on her shield and breastplate, four bodies bleeding on the cobblestones. She stopped yelling insults, which meant she was tiring, but that had to be all of the assassins out in the open now, and they didn’t have to fear a flanking attack. Hawke and Isabela joined her, both taking one attacker out with a single backstab from the shadows, and then peeled out a couple each to give Aveline some breathing space.

There was a subtle pull of magic in the air. She danced backwards, keeping her blades up and opponents focused on her, and tried to spot where it was coming from. All the assassins were dwarves, but they could have brought a merc mage.

The doors to the mansion were open again, and Leandra Hawke stood on the steps, in her nightie and a fluffy shawl, with drunk Merrill listlessly leaning against her shoulder.

Hawke whimpered in fear, desperately scanning for anyone who could see these defenceless, backlit targets. Mother was whispering something to Merrill, and Merrill’s fingers were moving.

The blood that was slicking the cobblestones whipped into the air like a net of red sticky lashes. The dwarves staggered, shaking, the spell taking them - internal bleeding, paralysis, whatever Merrill could do with fresh blood of a dozen men. The cut on Hawke’s leg stung and twitched, and a handful of warm blood spurted out onto her thigh. The whole leg went instantly numb, heavy, as if drained dry, and the creeping cold feeling kept rising.

Isabela shoved the assassins aside and pushed Hawke away, to the mansion wall, outside the spell’s hold. The dwarves’ shuddering faces, already white in the sparse starlight, were turning paler, and then bluish, and then black. Hawke closed her eyes, rubbed her hip and waited it out.

The bodies hit the ground. One rolled from the roof above: the shooter left in reserve, or the one who’d frozen and never had found courage to loose a bolt. Merrill dropped her outstretched hands, yawned and snuggled against Leandra’s shoulder, and was led back inside.

Hawke exchanged glances with Aveline and Isabela. They were all bleeding, worse for being clipped by the careless spell, but they were all up and alive, and as long as—

Three more dwarves, wide and well-armoured, almost soundlessly rushed them from the back street, and Aveline screamed, something between a battle cry and a wail of pain that grew a little too much, and hefted her shield.

There was a blue streak of light, a blur of white, and two of the dwarves were decapitated in one brilliant sweep of steel, and Isabela gutted the last one as Aveline brained him with her shield.

“Could you not?” yelled Fenris, his eyes swollen to little slits, a pillow crease across his face. He wasn’t even wearing his breastplate. “People are trying to sleep!”

“Finally, someone tell those bloody Fereldans!” came a yell from one of the black windows across the plaza. Now, with the battle over, the neighbours were no longer pretending to be on holiday to Orlais.

“It’s only that elf,” yelled someone in return, and followed that by loudly slamming the shutters.

“I didn’t want to have a hen party,” Aveline said, unbuckling her plate. The shoulder seam was stained with blood, and she took off the pauldron and pressed her neckerchief to the wound. “Didn’t have one last time. Always thought they were boring. Turns out they’re just like my day job, but I happen to love it, so it’s all right, I suppose.”

The aforementioned patrol was approaching from the Keep, walking cautiously, slowly, as if making sure the ruckus was over before they came near. In Hawke’s opinion, Aveline still had undeservedly high opinion of her people.

But at least they’d take care of the bodies.

Back in the dining room the candles were relit and Varric looked much better, laughing and telling the tale of his dash through the Kirkwall night with an army of assassins on his tail. Orana, with her hair and dress somehow already professionally impeccable, was serving him warmed broth.

“This is the best for when you’ve been bled,” she said. “Oh, mistress, you look like you need some too.”

Anders healed their wounds, and Fenris finished what drinks were left on the table, still fuming from having his sleep interrupted before dawn. Merrill was asleep again, curled up on the sofa with her head in Leandra’s lap.

“You saved our chops, but please, don’t do this again,” Hawke pleaded, settling at Leandra’s feet. “When I saw you out there…”

“How do you think I feel when I see you out there? At least, there’s one thing I know that never fails. Remember how many times blood magic saved us? Oh, but you really shouldn’t have let this poor girl drink so much. She’s only a tiny thing.”

“I was really sad before because Bethany can’t be here,” Hawke said, and leaned into it when Mother began running fingers through her hair, like she used to when she was a lanky girl who refused braids and whose mane was always an unnameable mess.

“You’re drunk too, sweetheart. And I’m sad too, of course, but look. The rest of the family is here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, Leandra had been planning this wedding and all the preliminaries. Neither the bride nor maid of honour even remember how 'a dress' works.
> 
> Next: Fenris shows up for his first reading lesson.


	11. Lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris shows up for his reading tutorial.

Fenris had postponed their first reading lesson a couple of times, out of nerves, Hawke assumed. When he finally turned up - with the forbidden tome she gave him unabashedly held before him, with his hair looking exceptionally smooth, as if he’d spent extra time brushing it - she leaned on the door post and grinned at him for a moment, glad and excited. She was happy she’d get to spend hours alone with him, with a good excuse to watch his face and listen to his voice. But also she couldn’t wait to see the whole new world open up for him, a universe of wonders.

“I have everything set up in the library,” she said as they walked in. Mother was writing letters in the parlour; she smiled at Fenris when they passed, and he bowed to her rigidly. “I bought two book just for this, you’ll love them.”

“We already have a book,” he said, lifting up the tome. “I’m eager to read this one.”

“We’re a good year away from that one, I’m afraid. I’m going to teach you as my parents had taught me and as I had taught Carver. You’re a lot smarter than either of us were, so if you get bored - tell me and I’ll push you harder.”

She had the books laid out on the writing desk, next to a stack of cheap blank paper and freshly sharpened quills. She’d not thought of those volumes in decades, since her childhood. Seeing the familiar covers on a market stall was like a stab to the heart, but, she’d decided when she could breathe again, in a good way. From her first memory of these books: being curled in her father’s lap, his beard ticking the top of her head as he read to her, to the last: dragging Carver’s small finger across the page, encouraging him to sound out the letters and inwardly praying for patience - all of it was still surprisingly vivid and raw, and both grief and love suddenly felt fresh, undimmed.

“We’re going to start with these two, that’s how I learnt to read,” she said. “These aren’t the same copies, obviously, I lost mine long ago, and they were in tatters anyway. But they’re so popular, you can still find them at every market. This one is about dragons, and it’s amazing. But we’ll leave that for later, because all the dragons have really long names, it’s a pain. This is the one we’ll use for now. It’s such a good book, I can’t wait to reread it myself.”

“I never realised you enjoyed reading that much,” Fenris said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with a book.”

“Well, that’s because after these two volumes everything else was, frankly, a let down. Don’t tell Varric I said so, but these are easily the two best books in the world. This one has pictures and rhymes, and it’s about Andraste’s mabari.”

“Again, I am surprised. You loudly proclaim that you’re not Andrastian.”

“I have no time for the Chantry nor much respect for the Maker, that’s true. But I love Andraste. She was a Fereldan woman who nearly tore down an empire or slavers, of course she’s a hero of mine, she’s the best. And this is about her mabari!”

“I’ve heard the song. You know, historically it’s improbable…”

“No, no, this is better! The song is traditional, many ages old, but this book is a retelling by a scribe from Denerim. It’s been written during the Orlesian occupation, to reawaken our fighting spirit. It’s four times longer than the song, has many great adventures, epic battles, and quiet moments when Andraste and mabari just spend time together enjoying their friendship. And best of all, the dog doesn’t die at the end! Andraste still does, that’s in the Chant, you can’t get around that. And the dog is sad, of course, but he’ll be fine.”

“I’ve never seen you like this,” he said, smiling. He took the seat at the desk she’d prepared for him and crosses his long slender legs under the chair.

“I see this cover and I’m six again,” she confessed. “The only child, the apple of my parents’ eyes, and they’re both alive and so young. But it’s not just that. It’s a good book, I promise. And, I suppose, if you were worried about this being demeaning or patronising, about me treating you like a child just because you’re my student, then there goes that.”

Fenris took the book and leafed through it. It was a thin, large folio, its pages stiff from colourful inks that filled the images. She watched over his shoulder. The glimpses of familiar scenes gave her a sharp pang of nostalgia: Andraste and her mabari marching into battle side by side, mabari ripping out a vint’s throat as Andraste cleaved another vint in two - that page had always been Hawke’s favourite. Andraste asleep by the dead campfire, alone in her roll, no Maferath in sight, the mabari a warm weight curled over her feet. Andraste laughing, the dog licking her face. And then…

“The dog is on fire,” Fenris said. “I’m looking forward to finding out how he survives that.”

“What?” she gasped, snatching the book from him. The last page, she remembered very clearly, had the drawing of the mabari stood on a flower-covered hill. He was alone, uncharacteristically subdued, but unharmed. The verses printed opposite promised he’d never forget his Andraste but will find a new friend once he’s grieved and healed. Instead…

Here was Andraste, dead, sagging against the ropes that lashed her to the stake. Her shift was bloodied down the front, the mortal wound dealt by the Sword of Mercy obscured by the fall of her unbound hair. The flames were up to her hips, and the stupid loyal mabari was crawling up onto the pyre, unable to leave her, and the fire was about to consume him alive.

“Mother!” Hawks yelled. “Why is the dog dying?”

She ran out to the stairs, and bumped into Leandra who was already rushing up from the parlour.

“Where is she?” Mother asked, pale with panic. “What is it? I’ll send for Anders - no, you should carry her there, it’s faster, oh, Bear…”

“Oh, no, Bear is fine. Bear! Bear!”

The mabari bounded down the stairs, barking, rushing. Her heavy rump was throwing her off balance, and she nearly tripped over the last step. The pitch of Hawke’s voice must have made her think it was an emergency, probably an attack. Leandra and Hawks both knelt and hugged Bear’s thick neck.

“You’re good girl, Bear,” Hawks said. “Sorry I scared you, Mother, that was dumb. Of course Bear is fine, she’s so healthy, fifteen is nothing, right, girl? You’re still young.”

“I believe Hawke meant this dog,” Fenris approached them and showed the awful picture to Leandra.

“It wasn’t like that,” Hawks said. “I remember, it wasn’t.”

The book gave her a sinking feeling of being caught in a nightmare: familiar faces worn by demons, distorted and tortured, shadows edging closer, bulging with unseen threats just at the edge of her perception.

“Ah, yes. It was like that when we bought you a copy,” Mother said. “You were four, I guess you forgot. You loved the story, but the ending upset you. You cried over this so much, for days, you couldn’t sleep. Se we cut the page out and sewn a new one in. I painted the picture, the dog and the flowers, and your father came up with the rhymes. It wasn’t a great match to the rest of the book, but you never seemed to notice.”

Hawke tried to remember if the style of the picture from her memories seemed any different from the book, if the tone of the last verses was changed, if there had been signs of tampering with the binding, and couldn’t.

“I hadn’t thought how easy it would be to falsify a book,” Fenris said. “People put too much stock in the written word, it seems.”

“Well, this is fiction, Fenris,” Mother said. “This story isn’t more or less true than the one me and Malcolm came up with.”

“Still, there is a good lesson for a child in this somber ending. Loyalty, love. I understand why you tried to spare one so young, but later…”

“There was a better lesson for her in the happy ending. We were all the family she had. Loyalty and love was all she knew. I wanted her to learn there’s still hope and life if you lose what you thought was your whole world.”

She smiled, still petting Bear, and pressed her fingers to the page Fenris had open, to the desperate scowl on the painted dog’s face.

“At least, that was the idea. Only - when I lost Malcolm it was me who had needed this. Marian was there to hold me together and remind me of that dog in the flowers I made up for her.”

“Maker, did I really bring up a children’s book back then?” Hawke muttered. “At a time like that? Mother, I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Mother laughed and drew her into a warm hug, into the most dear, familiar touch and scent in the world.

“I should come back another time,” Fenris said.

“No, just - wait in the library for a bit,” Hawke pleaded, and he went back upstairs, stepping softly.

The two of them, the last Hawkes, stayed kneeling on the floor, hugging the dog and each other.

“I’m sorry,” Hawke said. “Sorry I spent years drinking and snapping at you. You already have Gamlen for that.”

“It’s fine, sweetheart. I’m sorry I wasn’t - after your father, I fell apart. I let you shoulder everything, and I shouldn’t have. And when your brother… I blamed you, as if it always had been your job to carry the world on your back. As if the only reason it all had gone so horribly wrong was because you didn’t try hard enough. Madness. I’m so sorry.”

“I blamed you for Bethany,” Hawke confessed. “After all these years of keeping her safe, I left her with you just for a few weeks, and she was gone. And then you weren’t even - I didn’t think you were sad enough, you know? Made me so angry. Stupid, stupid…”

“I know. I didn’t want to let myself sink through the earth again, like after Malcolm and Carver. Bethany is alive, she wrote that she’s happy, and I’d been trying to do as she asked. Enjoy peace and comfort, have a normal life with you. That’s what she wanted for us.”

“Well, let’s do that. From now on, no more blame. No more guilt. No anger, just love. Let’s love this life. It’s not bad, is it? We’re together.”

Bear licked both their faces with her pungent tongue and tried to burrow more comfortably between them, and they finally broke apart.

“That’s about enough for my old knees,” Mother said. “And your student is waiting.”

“It’s fine, he’s made me wait before.”

“Orana already asked me if Fenris was planning to stay the night. She’s doing emergency laundry in the back yard right now. Apparently we didn’t have any clean bedsheets and she’s panicking about that for some reason.”

“Ugh, that girl…”

“Something about stains, I believe? Maybe I should ask her for details.”

“Mother, please…”

“Well, are you planning to reconcile? Should I warn her? Are your bed linens in danger?”

“Mom!”

“I need to know these things! What if I set you up with a foreign price, and you’re already taken? How awkward would that be?”

“Am I getting three years’ worth of this all of the sudden? Is that what forgiveness and love really look like in this family?”

Mother laughed, kissed her forehead, gave her last quick hug and pushed her toward the door.

“Go, sweetheart, go. I have letters to finish before dinner with my friends. We’ll talk more later. We have all the time in the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to give them a sappy moment before All That Remains happens, because it's about to happen.
> 
> [Andraste's Mabari](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Codex_entry:_Andraste%27s_Mabari) really is a heartbreaking song tbh.


	12. Hushed Whispers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke goes to a funeral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Yep, here we are at Leandra Hawke's death. Can't really skip that.

Hawke woke to familiar heavy warmth of Bear spread across her chest. For one moment she lazed against the flattened pillow, enjoying the cuddle. Then she remembered. All of that hadn’t been a grotesque nightmare, it had really happened. She was an orphan.

Grief tore through her - a sickening pain that seemed to hollow her whole body, leaving nothing but brittle bones under her skin. She tensed, her lungs contracting, unable to take in air. Bear woke, yawned and lapped at her arm. Hawke slowly loosened up again under the dog’s unwavering warmth and felt something else, a different kind of touch. Slim calloused fingers rested on the back of her hand, still and relaxed, the touch oddly familiar.

Fenris, she recalled. He’d come into her room yesterday and tried to talk, and lapsed into silence after a few halting lines.

“Everyone is downstairs,” he said after some time. “If you’d rather see someone else.”

“Will you stay the night?” she’d asked.

“Yes. Anything you need, I’m here.”

She’d only wanted to sleep, to have the day over with. She’d climbed under the blankets and let him settle in however he pleased - just knowing he was in the room was keeping the darkness at bay.

She quietly turned her head and looked at Fenris’ sleeping face. His hair was spread on her pillow, the white ends feathered over the embroidery, and his silent rhythmic breaths were a slight tickle on her cheek.

“I’m awake,” he suddenly said and opened his eyes. “I didn’t want to move, your dog is very cosy.”

Bear’s hindquarters were flung over Fenris’ legs, pinning him to the bed. Her paws hung off the edge of the mattress. She normally wouldn’t sleep like that, but she must have decided the guest needed a hug too.

They were quiet for a while, neither of the three of them moving. Fenris watched her face. He’d never seemed to like making eye contact, or being that close to people, except for their one night together. But he didn’t seem to mind this, and she was glad. Even if he wasn’t touching her anywhere except the back of her hand, it was a comfort to have him here.

“Here we are, a new day. How does it feel?” he asked.

“Bad,” she said. “But I’m breathing. I suppose I should get up. Take care of things.”

She’d taken care of things when Father died. She remembered meeting the undertaker and introducing herself as Hawke for the first time. Not as Marian, just by their family name. She’d found some strange solace in that: the family still had a Hawke to take care of everything. 

“There’s nothing pressing,” Fenris said. “We’ve spread the ashes, like you’d said.”

It had seemed equally obscene to keep the body as it was or to try to piece it back together. They’d burned all the remains in the room, and Hawke couldn’t bring herself to keep the result, or even to bury it. It had been a clear day, and they took the ashes to the docks and sprayed them over the water. Rest, free.

“Any legal matters to deal with?”

“No, nothing to inherit, this is all mine. I need to tell her friends. We need to hold a wake, a memorial feast.”

“Bodhan and Orana can prepare that. I’ll let them know.”

“And we must have a Chantry service. She’d want that.”

“I’ll have that arranged,” he said. “You can rest until then.”

She felt like she couldn’t get up even if she had to, that her bones would collapse trying to hold her up.

“The service is just for family,” she said. “For the Andrastians in the family. Gamlen, Aveline, Isabela… You’ll come, won’t you? You believe in the Maker, that’s close enough, right?”

“I’ll be there,” he said. “Varric and Anders are Andrastian too. Merrill will want to come regardless.”

“I didn’t know about Varric,” she said. Recounting her friends’ names had softened something inside her, and now tears were bubbling up, squelching in her nose. “Some friend, right? I don’t want to take Anders and Merrill to the Chantry, I can’t risk them. I can’t lose anyone else.”

“They’ll be safe. I promise.”

“I can’t,” she managed before a string of painful sobs tore through her body like a sudden seizure.

“I need to be alone now,” she said and pushed at Bear’s shoulder. The dog slowly, sulkily pulled its splayed paws in and rolled off the bed with a weighty thud. Fenris got up and pulled his armour on. She watched through the haze of tears as his fingers moved on the buckles. He snapped on his breastplate, put on his gauntlets and picked up his sword.

“Send for me if you need me,” he said.

He quickly bent over the bed and gave her a light, dry kiss on the temple, over the tangle of her sweaty hair. He called out to Bear and carefully, slowly closed the bedroom door behind them both.

Hawke lay in silence, quietly crying into her pillow. The tears were coming in a flood, easy and unstoppable, and she let them.

Soon Bear clopped back up the stairs on her overgrown claws and came inside, leaving the door ajar. She climbed onto the bed and pressed her drooling muzzle into Hawke’s cold hands.

Hawke petted the dog and waited for the pain to dull. It was coming in waves: one moment she could breathe easily, she could hear the chirping of birds and the city noise outside. Then, without any warning, it was all back, and again it felt like a blade turning inside her chest, rending her lungs.

Orana came in around noon with a food tray, her face red and swollen from tears, and tried to entice Hawke with soup, and when that failed, with sweet pastries. She brought clean bedsheets and put them on the dresser, and Hawke didn’t dignify that even with a glance. Some time later Bodahn stuck his head through the door to tell her the Chantry service would start after the evening prayers.

Hawke was there on time, washed and dressed, dry-eyed, unarmed, and the first thing she saw in the empty gilded hall were her friends, surrounded by templars.

She rushed forward, pushing between their bulky plate-clad bodies, trying to figure out how she’d fight empty-handed. Anders was there, in the middle, and Merrill, and—

“Sis,” Bethany said and hugged her, and Hawke’s eyes flooded again.

“How?” she managed to breathe into Bethany’s hair. The wool Circle robes felt stiff and scratchy under her palms. At least Bethany didn’t feel thin or frail against her. In fact, she’d filled out more.

“Varric and Aveline pulled some strings, and Anders’ friends among the Gallows mages all petitioned the Knight-Commander to allow this. It’s just for the service. They’ll let us talk a bit after, but--”

The Chantry Mothers gathered at the altar, and the ceremony began.

Hawke was going to sing along with everyone, for once to be part of it all, wholeheartedly, let the Maker’s light touch and soothe her, lose herself in Andraste’s embrace. But it turned out she didn’t remember any of the Chant. It didn’t even rhyme, anyway - for some reason she thought it would. She knelt, held Bethany’s soft hand and soundlessly mimed random words to blend in.

Merrill respectfully kept her eyes down and her hands folded, and stayed quiet. The rest sang their hearts out. Varric’s singing voice was as strong and rich as she’d expected, Fenris’ was surprisingly high and clear, and Anders —

It wasn’t his voice so much as the feeling in every note, the devotion, the unwavering conviction, faith. She watched his upturned face as he gazed at the giant golden Andraste before them, and knew with an irrational, deep certainty that, somehow, everything would end well. They’d make everything right. Anders would never give up, never stop believing. He was going to help her make it all right.

Afterwards the templars gave them some space, and she and Bethany huddled together in a corner, still watched, but hopefully out of earshot if they whispered.

“Nobody would tell me what actually happened to Mother,” Bethany started, and Hawke squeezed her hands and leaned closer.

“Anders told me you were staying in the Circle for her sake. There’s nothing keeping us here now. So I need you to know, I’m ready. I’m going to start converting everything into coin tomorrow, and as soon as Anders has everything in place, we’ll go. I’ll take you somewhere nice and warm. Or even back home, to Ferelden, we know how to hide. We’ll be together again.”

Bethany pulled her hands free and sighed.

“Sis…”

“It’s what I want, I promise.”

“Do you even care what I want?”

“Well, it’s not being locked up--”

“Sis, I’m happy there. I’m with the people like me. They know me, who I really am, I don’t have to hide anymore. I have friends, lovers, teachers and students. I’m not burying my gift in farm dirt. I’m finally alive. I’m free. Can’t you be happy for me?”

Hawke pulled back to look at Bethany’s face, so pretty, still so young, sharpened and changed by the last three years in an unsettling way, like a familiar book with a strange new ending.

“How can you be happy there? It’s a prison. You should be with me. We’re family.”

“We were. Five people, each sacrificing year after year for a bad compromise, something nobody really wanted. Father spoke six languages, had incredible magical gifts, and ended up tilling earth and mucking stables until it killed him. Mother in that constant poverty, always darning something, piecing something together from dregs and shreds. Poor Carver felt like an orphan in his own home, like nobody had time for him. And now they all finally at peace, and there’s just us. Two adults with two different lives. Can’t you let me be? Can’t you live your own life for a change, just the way you always wanted?”

“All I’d ever wanted was for all of us to be--”

“There’s no us anymore. You’re on your own, you’re free. Live, sis. Please. Fall in love, if you dare. Have children. If you want your family, make it. I’m not going to be a stone around your neck anymore. I’m where I’m supposed to be.”

“Bethy, please…”

“I want this. I was - I was too ashamed to tell you, but I’m not anymore. Are you still looking for that snitch who sold me out to the templars? Do you know why you can’t find them?”

“No,” Hawke muttered, already knowing what was coming next.

“I gave myself up. Bartrand told us you were dead, tossed some coin at us and left. Half the lowlives in town knew I was a mage, and you weren’t there to scare them to death. It was a matter of time before someone tattled, and then Mother would have gone to jail. So I sent word to the Gallows, and not regretted it once. I’m home, for the first time in my life. I’m me, at last. Let me have this. Please, don’t say anything. Let’s just… stay like this. Let’s just pray for Mother before I go back.”

Later Hawke walked home in a daze, and Anders was by her side, and she kept clutching at his sleeve as if he’d run away otherwise.

“Try to understand,” he was saying. “It’s not a betrayal. She still loves you. It does feels safer in there sometimes. She’s thriving, she can really learn…”

“I understand.”

“We’ll keep her safe, we’ll make sure the templars never think about overstepping again. What we did with Ser Alric - well, what I did was… unplanned, but - she’s safer for it, and the evidence we found will, I hope, bring new scrutiny. The templars won’t have free reign like they did. No more punitive Tranquility, no more abuses. We’ll make this all better, bearable. And we’ll keep working on the outside, too, spreading the word, creating good will. People will see, eventually they’ll have to see that mages are the Maker’s children just like everyone else. That we don’t need to be feared. The people won’t be so blind to the cruelties against the mages, and the Chantry will have to respond and give us some leeway. Maybe some day the Chantry will open the Circles, let mages visit their families, even live with them for a time. Maybe they’ll let parents raise their own children, keep them in the same Circle, and then let them go if they have no magic. I have pages of proposals - small things, to start with, but they’ll change the mages’ lives so much. If you want to help, if you think that’ll help you too, I have plenty of work for you. If you’d rather step away - I think it’s best if you did. You need to grieve. I’ll be there for Bethany, I won’t let anything happen to her, I swear. I’ll protect the mages with all I have. They’ll have their justice.”

She nodded, and felt in her bones - this quest, this fight, it would claim him. He’d be the next one she’d lose.


	13. All Who Remain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke wades through grief and emerges on the other side.

Time was moving in a different way now: like light underwater, at an odd angle. They had the memorial feast. Hawke and Gamlen pulled together in a rare moment of solidarity and between the two of them, both drunk and somewhat lost, they managed to host a passable party.

After that there was nothing else to do, nobody to look after, nothing to work toward, nothing left to fear.

A few days had passed with excruciating slowness, every moment a struggle Hawke couldn’t truly account for. It was like fighting against pain, even though winning was impossible, holding in cries and tear was useless, and surrender wouldn’t have changed anything, neither the nature of pain nor how long it would last. Yet, looking back, nothing really happened in all that time. She was in bed, she stared at the ceiling, she slept, she ate something, unable to taste it through the thick plug of tears in her nose. She was mean to her dog, sending her away with abrupt commands, and once threw a pillow when Bear wouldn’t obey. It missed, but the scornful look Bear gave her cut deep.

She was mean to her servants, mostly ignoring them, as if the food, bath water and fresh clothes appeared in her room by magic. They were all distraught and upset, and she could have spoken to them, could have let them talk it all out, try to make sense of a senseless, awful thing. They kept trying to meet her eyes, start conversations, softly dangling small talk and mundane questions for her as bait, and she stared past them and waited for them to leave.

On the third or fourth day she woke up to Varric’s voice rising from the parlour, ringing through the house, telling some long, filthy paragon joke to Bodahn. Hawke got dressed, ignoring the ripe smell of her own unwashed body, strapped on her knives and went down to meet him.

“Nothing for you to stab,” he said. He was leaning back in her chair, with his booted feet on her writing desk, Lowtown dirt flaking off on the avalanche of her unopened letters. “Just wanted to go over some accounts, it’s that time again.”

“I’m not really in the mood,” she said, and walked over to slap his feet off the desk.

He accepted it with a chuckle, planted his toes on her carpet, uncomfortable in her too-tall seat, and leaned forward.

“Hey, Hawke. You know you’re my best friend, right?”

“You’re my best friend too,” she said. Talking after such a long silence felt odd, artificial. It was as if she was watching this happen on stage: human woman talking to a handsome dwarf man, act two, scene seven. Still, she knew they both meant it. 

“We’re both orphaned immigrants with our siblings locked up,” he said. “Well, and, obviously, we’re both dashing, devastatingly gorgeous rogues, prominent entrepreneurs, legends in our own lifetime. We’re going to stick together.”

“Sure.”

“I’ll hug you after you had a bath. Do you want a hand with these? I think most of it are the condolences. I compose, you sign?”

They cleared the desk in an hour. He opened the letters she’d been unable to even think of, let alone touch. He read them out loud and instantly penned a response on her best paper, in his amazingly even, clear handwriting. Just a line each, almost all the same, dignified and somber, and all she had to do was scribble “Hawke” on each, fold, address and seal them. Easy, mindless, soothing work. Orana brought a tray of tea and cookies and left them to chat by an open window. Wet sea breeze ruffled Hawke’s greasy hair, Varric grinned at her, and she wondered at the weird pinch in her cheeks before she realised she was smiling back.

“Drakes in the Bone Pit again,” Varric said. “Never a boring moment with that investment. Where are they even coming from?”

“There must be a cave system connected to the tunnels, we just haven’t found the entrance yet. A high dragon must be laying eggs just next to the mine, and the whelps keep getting through. We should spend some time exploring the collapsed areas, the drakes might have dug around the rubble there,” she said, excited at the possibility of finding a clutch of mature eggs. She’d always wanted to get her hands on a hatchling to try to get him to imprint on her, like a mabari pup would.

“Well, yeah, when you say ‘we’ I’m going to assume it’s you and Aveline and the others. You know how I feel about going underground.”

“We just decided to stick together! What happened to our deep kinship?”

She did order a bath and washed after he left, and that was a good thing. Varric had been only a forward scout, as it turned out.

Mid-afternoon, at the usual time for their lesson, Fenris was at the door, to Bear’s slobbery delight. The dog had become used to his daily visits, she must have missed him.

“Varric said you seemed open to company. I was wondering if you’re ready to continue,” he said after he paid Bear her tribute in neck scratches. “We were about to start on writing.”

Hawke wasn’t ready, but she didn’t have the heart to send him away. She took him to the library and made him a worksheet: drew a dozen guide lines across the page with a ruler and placed sample slanted strokes at the beginning of each, for him to copy. Then she put the quill into his hand and settled it against his finger, gently manipulating his grip.

“Just like a spoon. You might want to take the gauntlets off.” 

His left hand hovered over the red knot on his right wrist. He probably had to loosen it to get to the buckle.

“I can use the spoon perfectly fine like this,” he said. “Let’s try at least before we give up.”

“Let’s,” she agreed. “The first step is just to draw straight lines to get a feel for this. The rest of writing is only hanging more lines on those. It’s about precision and focus. Don’t be frustrated if it doesn’t come easily.”

“Somewhat like sword work, then.” He carefully touched the quill tip to paper and dragged down a wobbly fat line.

“The hardest part is not to tense up. It feels like you’d have more control, but you won’t.”

“So, exactly like sword work,” he said, drawing the fourth line, gamely  ignoring the string of splatters connecting it to the third. The fifth scratched the paper as the quill tip dried out. He dipped it into ink, carefully tapped off the excess as he’d seen her do. The sixth line drowned in an ink blotch, and on the next one he snapped the quill, tore through the page with the tips of his gauntleted fingers and swore in Tevene.

“Pretty good for the first try,” she said and handed him a rug to wipe his ink-stained gauntlets. “Just keep going until your fingers give up.”

“It’ll be a while,” he said and took the next quill. Hawke put her chin in her hands and watched him work, shamelessly enjoying the view.

“I’ll miss this when we’re done,” she said.

“You said it’ll take years,” he muttered, laying stroke after stroke with quickening pace and confidence.

“Years of practice before reading is easy enough to be a pleasure. But, as far as lessons are concerned, in a few months I’ll run out of things to teach you.”

He paused, gave her a careful glance through the fall of his hair, and fixed his eyes on the paper again.

“We’ll do something else,” he said. “Better ourselves in a different way. I could teach you Tevene, or, better still, Qunlat. You’re de facto Kirkwall’s unpaid envoy to Arishok, it’ll be useful.”

“Or we could spar in the back garden. I need more practice one-on-one against a warrior.”

“You’re not supposed to face warriors, that’s a warrior’s job.”

“Don’t even start with me, of course I can face a warrior. Dual wielding has unlimited potential, it can stand just fine against any sword style. My brother was really good, and I beat him three times out of four.”

“Wasn’t Carver a teenage boy?”

“Yes, and twice my size. Do you want to go right now? You’ll see, I’ll make you eat your entirely wrong opinion.”

She had no chance against him in a real fight, but in a practice one he’d have to control his swings and hold back his strength, which would put him at a disadvantage. Mock fighting was a lot easier with light daggers. Carver had always complained about that - if he could just cleave or impale her for real, he used to say, he’d never have lost.

“I’ll pass,” Fenris grinned at the page. “I’m far too intimidated now.”

She loved being near him, as always, but the moment he was gone it felt like her spine would collapse in a sudden rush of fatigue. She staggered back to her bedroom, curled atop the covers and shut her eyes, waiting for the time to slip away from her again, for the day to be over.

It was already getting dark outside - time to sleep, the thought wistfully, everything will be better tomorrow - when she was stirred by familiar voice.

“Hawke?”

Anders was at her open door, uncertainly peering inside.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to - Fenris said you looked pale, and Orana told me to just go up and examine you, I really thought…”

“She’s a sneaky one. Come in,” she beckoned. “Fenris said I looked pale, did he? He came to the clinic to say that, and you dropped everything and rushed over?”

“Well, yes.”

“Seriously? What about that time when a giant spider nearly bit my leg off and you all just watched and laughed?”

“That was pretty hilarious, the way you were shrieking and hopping around…”

“Spiders are so wrong. Want to take my pulse?”

She offered him her wrist and he crossed the room, sat on the edge of the bed and took it.

“I can feel there’s nothing wrong with you,” he said but pressed his fingers to her skin anyway. “Nothing I can heal, that is. How are you feeling?”

“I don’t know. Numb. Tired. Sore all over, like I’m growing new skin.”

“You are. Your family was your whole world. You’re changing.”

“I suppose I am,” she said. It did feel like an enormous shift to everything, a different kind of loss than Father’s death had been. Back then she knew all she had to do was pick up where he left off and carry on in his stead. Now there was nothing, a shapeless, endless expanse of time and possibilities. Not what she’d wanted, but it was what she had.

“Normally they suggest a change of scenery at a time like this. But I’m not sure. After Karl I went to the Deep Roads and that wasn’t what I’d call therapeutic.”

“Come on, it wasn’t that bad. We had some laughs, didn’t we?”

She took his hand, and this time he didn’t snatch it away. She turned it over, admiring his long fingers, the shape of his palm, and rubbed her thumb over the freckles at his knuckles.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“Angry,” he smiled crookedly. “At that madman, at the templars. One time they could have been of use, and they botched it all. Justice had been… he’s quieter now. We’re working more, it calms him.”

They stayed like that in cosy, comfortable silence. He watched her play with his fingers, his hand warm and pliant in hers.

“Bethany said she has lovers in the Gallows,” Hawke said, tracing his love line across his palm. “Lovers. Plural.”

“It’s safer like that.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m not judging, I’m proud. Happy for her, the more the merrier. Also, amazed that my little sister has more lovers than me. I’d always been the adventurous one. Boys, girls, Orlesians... Wait - safer?”

“Yes. For her, in particular. If the templars are watching you - because you’re a troublemaker, or you’re new, like Bethany - they’ll notice if there’s the same person always near you. If you’re fond of each other. If there always someone new, even if it’s the same four or five people, well, the templars aren’t that attentive, really. I just wish me and my first had learnt that lesson before the templars taught it to us.”

“Tell me about her,” she asked. She sensed a sad story, and she wanted one now, some kinship in the world where she felt like she was the only sad one, dragging everyone else down, making others worry and treat her gently.

“You’ve met,” Anders said, keeping his eyes down, on her moving fingers, as she kept stroking his hand. “It was Karl.”

She frowned, recalling how all that had gone, the way the two men talked and looked at each other.

“Why not tell me back then?”

“I don’t know. I guess - most people seem to like one or the other. I didn’t want you to think I wouldn’t be interested in you.”

“You weren’t interested in me. I asked, and you weren’t.”

“I still enjoyed your attention,” he murmured, blushing. The flush spread over his cheeks in a quick flood of pink. It was a glow, just like Isabela had said. “Selfish, I know. I was his first, and he was mine. We had others, we tried not to be obvious. But, he was my all - he was the one bright light - I couldn’t stay away, wasn’t careful, and they got us. They should have sent me away. I was the troublemaker, the flight risk. But I was one of the two spirit healers in Kinloch, and Wynne wasn’t young. So Karl was more expendable, and to the Gallows he went. I’ve not seen him in a decade, I’ve had dozens of lovers since. When I came here, I didn’t think we’d be together like that again. With Justice - he knew how I felt, he wanted to meet Karl, but still, I was a different person. I only wanted to rescue my friend. But, the first message I got from him… It was all still there, you know? For me, and for him. All we used to feel for each other, just as it had been. And then they ripped it all from him.”

She sat up and hugged him. He didn’t put his arms around her, but tucked his face into the crook of her neck, and his stubble tickled her skin when he spoke again.

“Sometimes I think I shouldn’t have killed him.”

“It’s what he wanted.”

“Yes, but you saw - a moment later he wouldn’t even remember what he’d wanted. I could have taken him away from there. Could have kept him safe, looked after him.”

“I don’t know. I’d rather be dead than Tranquil.”

“Me too, of course. Still, imagine not having to feel. No fear, no pain, no guilt.”

“The Tranquil feel pain.”

“Only physical. Anyway, that’s - the reason I’m telling you this now, and it’s a platitude, I know, but I survived that. It felt like I’d lost everything, but I was wrong. I still had Justice, I had my patients, my cause, and then you. And you have all of us. It doesn’t feel enough now, I know, but… just give it time. Please.”

She hadn’t even thought of not surviving this, of taking a quick way out. Only after he’d left she began to wonder if that kind of thought still came to him, if she had a cause be worried - but he had Justice. Someone was watching over him at all times. The same force that stole his sleep, didn’t let him rest, didn’t even let him get drunk once in a while, that kept pushing him further away from the rest of them, would at least keep him safe from the worst of the darkness within. At least, that was Hawke’s hope.

A change of scenery seemed like a decent enough idea, and she brought that up next day when Isabela and Merrill visited. Two days later they and Aveline were camped out on the shoulder of Sundermount, under a thick canopy of trees, high up enough so they could see the blue glimmer of the sea in the distance.

They brought supplies for a fortnight. Hawke thought they’d grow deathly bored in three days and head back, and leave the rest of the food with the Dalish as they passed the camp on the way. But Merrill took them around the whole mountain, telling tales of every carving and painting, legends about every animal they spotted, and at night spoke about ancient elvhen history and the golden, forgotten age of their fabled glory. Her demon wasn’t far, trapped up the mountain, and Hawke’s dreams were clearer than her usual jumbled non-mage mess of images. The demon was sizing them all up, wading through their dreams, but it didn’t attack, didn’t even approach. Hawke decided it simply wanted to know more about Merrill’s friends. Merrill was in Hawke’s dreams too, all their minds melding and crossing in the Fade as they slept side by side under the same blanket. Merrill and the demon walked together, talking, holding hands as friends, and the demon’s large body shimmered and constantly flickered into different shapes, as if Merrill was the one corrupting it, twisting it into something else.

They gathered herbs for the clinic, climbed up steep mountain slopes, raced Bear down fragrant forest paths. Almost daily they were attacked by slavers, and the fighting was brutal, dirty, and, in a darkly shameful way, wonderful too, even though they had to dispose of the corpses after. Burning them would stink up the forest, so they dropped all the bodies into the mountain caves, for the spiders.

Hawke had conflicted feelings about that.

“Nobody needs more spiders,” she said. “They’ll breed like crazy on all that free food.”

“Oh no, spiders are important. Let me tell you what they normally hunt and eat down there,” said Merrill and spun stories about horrific cave monsters, flying, skittering, burrowing, tainted, corrupted by wild magic, or just plain ugly for no narrative reason.

A week in Donnic walked into their camp, smiling apologetically, carrying a packed tent.

“This was supposed to be girls only,” Hawke protested.

“This girl has needs,” Aveline said and moved her things into the new tent.

Now at nights Hawke lay between Merrill and Isabela, with Bear curled up on her feet, and listened to Donnic’s gasps and grunts.

Leandra had been planning a ridiculously lavish wedding for those two. The idea had been to rent an Orlesian country estate, deck it in elaborate, colour-coordinated decorations, and throw a fancy party that would last for days. Aveline’s dress was still just a sketch in Leandra’s drawing book, and they’d kept debating over it. Aveline hadn’t wanted to bare her shoulders, worrying they were too bulky. Hawke disagreed, but even to her untrained eye the dress, a wispy lacy thing with cinched waist and flared at the hips, wasn’t the best shape for someone of Aveline’s stature. She’d wondered if Leandra had dreamt this style up for one of her daughters, or even for herself back in the day.

The wedding had been indefinitely postponed for the mourning, and now quietly cancelled.

“It had always been for her, really,” Aveline had said. “We don’t have any other family, so there’s little point. We’ll elope and honeymoon somewhere nice instead.”

They still looked smitten, and the sounds from the other tent seemed to confirm Donnic as “incredibly proficient lover”, as Aveline had put it. Isabela, of course, kept running commentary over the noises they made, and Merrill giggled at it, and neither Aveline nor Donnic seemed to hear or care.

It took a few days of that for Hawke to catch on.

“Am I the fifth wheel here?” she asked. “Are you two still--”

“Well, sort of, it’s all good fun,” Merrill said. “You know we both love you, right?”

Isabela twitched at her other side, but didn’t object out loud.

“We’d love to help however we can,” Merrill said. “The Dalish believe there’s no better cure for grief than sex and love. Both of us, if you want, or one of us could take Bear for a long walk. It’s up to you. We both want to do this for you.”

Hawke thought about it, revelling in the feel of their warm bodies next to hers. She’d ask how that was supposed to work, what would be rules and limits, would it change their friendship, would they become something else to each other - but there was little point. All she felt at the idea was distant gratitude, and not a spark of lust. She’d not thought about sex in months, and that was the least of the things that’s been off about her body lately. Her appetite for food was just coming back, aided by the fresh forest air, but that was about it so far.

She took both their hands and reverently kissed their knuckles.

“I’m not there yet,” she said. “Appreciate the thought, though.”

On their return she spent a week in the mansion, with her servants still tip-toeing around her, and then went to Gamlen’s shack. It looked and smelled far worse than before, without the Hawkes’ attempts at upkeep and cleanliness, and yet she felt sickly nostalgic for the good old times.

Gamlen scowled at her from his chair, not trying to get up.

“Move back into the mansion,” Hawke said. “It’s your home too. Please, Uncle, we’re all the family that’s left.”

“Oh, you’re wrong, there’s always another Amell, a better one,” Gamlen slurred. “Always someone better than old drunk Gamlen. Go away, make nice with your heroic cousin. She’s closer to your station.”

“You know what, that’s a good idea, I’ll write to her,” Hawke said and began opening drawers and throwing everything that seemed more or less of use into a sack she’d brought. Clothes, greasy old ledgers, a few things he seemed to have kept from the mansion, including a small painting of Leandra as a teenage girl. “I always thought we shouldn’t reach out to her, since we’d never even met. I didn’t want us to look like that sort of relations, suddenly coming out of the woodwork when someone made something of themselves. But I think she might like the idea of getting to know us. Or if not, she just wouldn’t reply, no harm done.”

She coaxed him to his feet, led him across town and announced his arrival to her household.

The subsequent domestic storm took all their minds off their misery for quite some time.

Sandal was unperturbed, as he was by most things, but Bodahn was flying into a fit of fury about some perceived disaster almost daily, every time there was a slightest disruption to his routines. Hawke herself had regular shouting matches with Gamlen over the gambling parties he insisted on having, about house decorations he pawned to pay his tab, and he had a lot to say to her about her failings as a head of a family, as a person and as a woman.

Hawke knew they’d be all right on the day Orana butted into their conversation completely out of the blue.

“I’m sorry, did you just say your niece is into elves?” she asked, carefully cradling a dripping ladle she carried, trying to protect the carpets from the drops of white sauce. Their raised voices had rang through the house, and she came up from the kitchen specifically to ask this.

“Yeah, everyone knows she fucked that elf boy, and he--” Gamlen started. He was as drunk as he ever got. Hawke had sworn to herself over and over that she wouldn’t argue with him when he was like that, but somehow just couldn’t simply walk away.

“So she’s into elves? What do you think we are, a flavour of fudge? Or are we something scandalous, maybe - some people are into chains, and some into elves? And you’d taunt your heartbroken niece about that? Shame on you, Gamlen Amell.”

She turned away and calmly walked back into the kitchens, and they both gaped after her, speechless.

“So touchy,” Gamlen muttered eventually. “Well. Guess I can see how my meaning could be misunderstood.”

Hawke invited Fenris to stay for dinner after his lesson and was deeply amused by Gamlen’s clumsy attempts to be extra nice to him.

Their lessons were getting more sparse. She really was out of things to teach him. When he presented her with half a page of nearly flawless dictation he took as she was reading for him from the book of Shartan, she stared at the page in sudden dismay, caught in that strange time flow again.

“How long has it been?” she asked.

“Four months,” he said, and they both knew what he meant. “Five months since we started the lessons.”

“It’s almost perfect,” she marked the errors and handed the page back to him.

“Still room for improvement, then. Same time tomorrow?”

Later she went to the kitchen to talk to Orana, mentally kicking herself for not having thought of this sooner. As she came in, Orana threw a towel over the counter and whatever dish she’d been magicking up and glared at Hawke, clearly questioning her presence in the cook’s domain.

“I never asked if you could read,” Hawke said. “And if you’d like to learn.”

“I can, mistress. Not very well yet. Fenris has been teaching me.”

“Has he?” Hawke asked, ready to suppress irrational jealousy and act nonchalant. “I didn’t realise you were close.”

“It was his idea at first. He thinks reading can be a way to a greater freedom, he talks about that a lot. So I thought if I could read the cookbooks from your library I could teach myself Marsher and Orlesian cooking, and if you didn’t want to keep me anymore, I’d still be fine. Merrill was helping too. I pay her in music lessons, and him in sweet pastries. Actually… This was going to be a surprise, but it’s not going very well, so I might as well ask you.”

She moved the towel and revealed an open book, propped on the counter beside a perfectly shaped, still empty pie crust. Hawke folded back the cover and read the embossed title.

“‘A Treatise on Fereldan Cooking, by Brother Genitivi’. Wow, he really gets into every subject. Are you - oh! Were you trying to make something for me?”

“I thought it might remind you of home, of simpler, happier times,” Orana said. “We were all really excited about it, but… This book tells you to put cheese or onions into everything, so it all tastes like sweat and dirty socks. I thought we might not have the right cheese, and then Isabela asked her sailor friends to bring us a few wheels from Ferelden. But it’s even sharper! So, I’m making a pie that has nothing but cheese and onions for filling. It has to be the cipher taste, the key to the cuisine’s essence. If I master this, I’ll be able to cook it all. Could you check if we read the recipe right? If I’m doing this correctly?”

Hawke stared at the pie crust and the bowl with the filling, tapped her aching chest with a clenched fist and searched for words.

“Thank you,” she said finally. “This is very thoughtful. Yes, this is it, there’s no secret to it. Ferelden is a cold, wet country. Sometimes we just want a hearty sock pie. Could you make a dozen?”

Their oven could only do so much, but by the evening Hawke had eight warm cheese and onion pies to take to the sewers for the refugees.

“A taste of home,” she said while she watched them eat. A good three dozen gathered once the word went out, and the pie slices looked pitifully small in their dirty hands. “Almost. It is a little mild, my cook is from Tevinter, she’s only learning.”

She babbled like that, pretending it was really just a gesture to lift their spirits, and they would care that the filling was a twist on the traditional recipe, but most of them were devouring the handouts too quickly to taste anything, barely chewing. They were still starving, dying here, and she was still not doing much, apart from an occasional benevolent, meaningless stunt like this one.

And yet, with plenty of people left empty-handed and hungry, she still hid the last slice at the bottom of the basket and took it to the clinic, for Anders.

She had another gift for him in her pocket, and she suspected he might reject it like he’d done with all her advances so far, for the same reason: to protect her from some imaginary harm. A pie was meant to butter him up first.

Anders was kneeling on the floor as she came in, sliding a small saucer under his makeshift altar to Andraste.

“I’m putting out milk,” he explained when she asked. “I miss having a cat around.”

She didn’t want to tell him it would likely just attract rats down here, that a cat would only duck into the sewers to wait out a pouring rain, if no other shelter was nearby. It was too smelly and wet here for them, when out at the docks they could lie in the sun and steal fish guts from the ditches. The habits of farm animals evidently hadn’t been a topic in the Circle education.

But then he rose to face her and she was lost in his smile, seized by a wave of almost unbearable, melting affection. Here he was, a man who longed for a kitten and wouldn’t get one, from some strange, martyr-like conviction that he wouldn’t do right by a pet, he’d let it down somehow. Hawke wanted to hug him - she always did whenever she saw him, but now she felt an almost physical need to press against him, taste his skin, feel his warmth. She wanted to feed him that pie, cuddle him in her bed, burrow with him under the blankets, she wanted—

Sharp stab of desire surged through her loins, sudden and painful. She winced, biting her lip, and saw that he noticed. He blinked, blushed and stepped a little closed, as if she was pulling him in by invisible strings.

She wanted him, just as much as she ever had, with all the desperation of years of suppressed longing. She felt suddenly awake in a new way, resurfaced, reborn, shaking in hew new, over-sensitive skin. Her nipples were hard and tender against suddenly too-rough linen of her underclothes, her legs trembled, her face burned. Something felt different in the charged silence between them. She wondered if his life had finally worn him down to the point where he would succumb to a simple, human temptation, or was it all just her - her need overwhelming him, breaking his resolve, her new, stronger, rebuilt and purified self no longer someone he felt he had to protect and push away.

Either way, she thought, watching his wide-blown pupils, listening to a soft breathy tremble in his voice. Either way, this time he wouldn’t refuse her.


	14. Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke’s date with Anders doesn’t go quite as planned. Nsfw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hawke is so bad at feelings

“Is the door unlocked?” Hawke yelled from the upper floor landing.

“Messere Hawke, It’s past sundown!” Bodahn yelled back. “I thought we all agreed--”

“I specifically asked not to lock it tonight!”

She ran downstairs and threw the bolt open. Bodahn pursed his lips with a squint that meant he would lock up again as soon as her back was turned.

“Bodahn, don’t you even go near that door, or I swear, will be consequences. As I said before, I’m expecting a very, very important visitor!”

“Well - can’t they knock?” Bodahn asked, blinking with false guilelessness. “I’ll let them in straight away, as soon as we know it’s friend, not foe. What name, so I can be sure? Should I tell Orana to prepare some snacks?”

“You’re not interrogating my guest, and you’re not locking the door! If I have to stand right here until he shows up—”

“But why can’t he knock?”

“Because!” she yelled, snapping. “He won’t knock, all right? If the door is locked, he will just leave, and that’s not going to happen!”

“Is that messere Anders coming to spend the night?” called Orana from the kitchens. “I heard you finally kissed!”

Of course she’d heard. They’d kissed for several long, breathtaking minutes, in the middle of the clinic, shamelessly moaning into each other’s mouths. Hawke had forgotten all about the clinic door left ajar, the patients resting on the cots, two volunteers scrubbing the floor. Only when Anders pulled back and she could see and think again she realised that everyone had been watching.

The Darkrtown healer was revered by half the Kirkwall. Hawke was somewhat of a celebrity to another half. There was a significant overlap in these two fames, centred around The Hanged Man and Varric’s stories. Of course the whole town knew by now.

Orana came in, holding a half-filled spoon out for her.

“I’ve been making something just in case. Almost as potent as oysters, but will make everyone’s breath smell sweet. Try this for me, I’ve noticed you palate is - I don’t want to overseason it.”

Hawke licked at the spoon and appreciatively hummed at the spicy fruity taste.

“Wait, no, we don’t need snacks,” she said. “Don’t come near my bedroom, don’t even go upstairs tonight, all right? And please, please don’t barge in at dawn to change the sheets.”

“Is that what you’re wearing?” Orana asked, completely ignoring Hawke’s stern glare.

“Yes. He’d seen me in my house robes before. He won’t be put off. Why? Does it look weird from behind?”

“No, no, you look lovely. Just, I wish I knew - give me a second, I’ll lay a couple of stitches at the waist. It’ll change the whole silhouette.”

She rushed off and Hawke was left standing by the door, trying to smooth the robes down her sides. She could feel it now, her flanks had gone a little flabby after months of mostly laying about staring at the ceiling.

“You knew, didn’t you,” she told Bodahn. “You knew perfectly well who I’m expecting and you’re just torturing me.”

“Well, I’ve heard the town gossip, I had an inkling. And I’m a little upset to find out from idle tongue-wagglers at the market. You could have told me,” he said. “It’s sad we don’t talk much anymore, isn’t it? We used to chat about everything. And now it’s like old Bodahn is boring. People don’t tell me anything, people don’t ask me anything. And I have plenty of stories, you know. Have I ever told you what I got up to during the Fifth Blight?”

“No, and that’s really interesting, I will definitely ask you tomorrow, but I’m a bit preoccupied right now,” she said, wondering if she had time for another bath. Nervous sweat was prickling her arms already, she was going to stink in half an hour. At least now she could be sure her breath smelled sweet from Orana’s concoction.

“Messere Hawke,” Bodahn said. “You have nothing to be nervous about. I don’t really know anything about human women, you’re all just gangly twig people to me. But when it comes to finding love, making a family, building a future, looks are definitely not everything. It’s all about how people fit together. And you and messere Anders clearly are perfect for each other.”

Hawke looked at his broad, earnest, kind face, and was speechless for a moment. She hadn’t been planning that far ahead. She was still weak in the knees from that kiss in the clinic, and all she really could think about were Anders’ lips on hers, his hands on her body. That wasn’t about the future - if anything, that was about the past, the time they’d lost, the years they’d denied themselves. It was about the present, the immediate, urgent need to be with him. She’d not thought about the future since she said her farewells to Bethany at Mother’s funeral. Every day since then had been a battle, and Hawke hadn’t wanted to imagine the long years of the same exhausting slog that were still in store.

But this, this could be—

“You tell your new paramour,” said Gamlen from the cosy chair by the window, where he’d been snuggled up with a suspicious dusty bottle and a plate of fried cockles. “If he breaks your heart like that vint boy did, he’ll have to answer to me. In fact, I might just tell him myself.”

“Thanks, Uncle, I’m sure he’ll be horrified,” Hawke said, briefly recalling the way Anders tore through templars when Justice pushed to the fore. Blood on his hands, his sharp jaw clenched in a grimace of rage, his face bathed in light - even that memory was arousing right now.

Orana came running back with thread and needle ready, knelt behind Hawke and began cinching her robes with quick stitches.

Hawke kept still, tried not to twitch at the ticklish pull of thread against her skin, and stared out of the window, toward the street Anders normally took from Darktown.

“The magister received her lovers backlit by the fireplace,” Orana said. “She thought it most flattering. Do you already have the fire going?”

“Yes, yes,” Hawke muttered. The anticipation was getting unbearable. If Anders wasn’t going to show up any time soon, she would run out in her house slippers and find him.

And there he was: making his way down the street, tall and lanky, evening breeze ruffling the feathers at his shoulders. Just seeing a glimpse of him through the window, a block away, made her face flush at once, made her lips tingle with the memory.

“He’s here!” Hawke yelled and extricated herself from Orana. The robes hung on her awkwardly, pulling to the side, but there was no time to fix that now. “Do not touch the door! Act natural! Be welcoming!”

She sprinted up the stairs, straightened his present on the mantelpiece and stood in front of the fireplace, staring at the flames, her arms folded to mask whatever was wrong with her robes. When he came in, she was just going to smoothly turn toward him and let the fire flatteringly back-light her.

There was a little commotion downstairs, high-pitched, fake, cheery voices. They weren’t being natural at all. 

But at least they’d not scared him off. She counted his footfalls on the stairs, another few steps to her bedroom door - and finally, finally, there he was, right here, all hers.

He seemed unsure, strangely shy and reserved, as if the kiss in the clinic hadn’t happened at all. He talked about the Circle, about his fears, his worry that he might lose her somehow. She barely heard him through the roaring of blood in her ears.

When he finally touched her again - just a hand on her cheek - she felt a sudden wave of warmth, a ghostly caress, something softer, more intimate than flesh. That gentle wave of power sank through her skin and settled deep inside her, and then they were kissing again, the same feverish, desperate, painfully sweet kisses like their first one. With the last of the reason left in her mind and the last of the strength left in her body, Hawke grabbed his hand and pulled him to her bed.

She toppled backwards onto the bed and pulled him on top of her. He put both hands on her face, reverently holding it between his palms, and kissed her again and again, melting against her, as if getting lost in pleasure.

She loved having his weight on her, loved being pinned under him, their bodies pressed so close. She pulled his hair tie loose and let the blond tangled mess tumble onto her face. She put her fingers in it, rubbing his scalp, and he broke the kiss only to push into the caress and moan, eager like an attention-starved cat.

He wasn’t making any move to get under her clothes, didn’t even touch her anywhere apart from her face. She could barely feel the shape of his body through the thick coat and the bulky feathers, and she craved him, wanted to touch his skin, to taste him everywhere.

They had all night to themselves. They had countless nights, if she wouldn’t ruin this somehow like she had with Fenris and Isabela. But she couldn’t wait a moment longer.

She rolled them over to the side, stroked his face, tracing the line of his nose and jaw with her fingertips, kissed him one last time on the lips and pulled on the clasps of his coat.

He didn’t hurry her, didn’t help out - just lay there, spread out for her like a feast, smiled and let her peel off his layers one by one. The short feathered jacket came off, and once again she was startled by how thin Anders was, how bony his shoulders looked without the padding.

The quilted coat soon joined the green jacket on her floor, next to her slippers where she’d kicked them off. The casual domesticity of that sight warmed her soul almost as much as his kisses did. For a moment Hawke imagined getting off the bed in the morning, picking up all their discarded clothes to hang them up in her wardrobe. She could lend him one of her robes to lounge in through breakfast. Maybe she could even persuade him to leave his boots on her bedroom floor all day and laze under the blankets, enjoying each other.

She pulled off his loose grey scarf, touched soft bared skin and leaned in to kiss him there, the bump of his throat, the dips above his sharp collarbones, the soft place between them, where his pulse was jumping wildly.

This was exactly like she’d imagines so many times, with her hand between her legs, trying to lessen the terrible ache of need. Well, this was exactly like some of her fantasies, they’d been varied and many. But something seemed different - in a good way, but still, it tugged at her, and she wondered what it meant. She bunched up his long threadbare tunic, grey from too many washes and splitting apart at the hem. His midriff bared, showing his tight stomach, the soft fuzz of blond hairs below his navel and between his nipples.

He watched her, eyes wide and shining, full of joy and wonder. He had himself laid open and bare for her pleasure, letting her do whatever she wanted. His fingers softly stroked her legs below the skirts of her robe, but he didn’t draw her closer or direct her in any way, happy for her to look, touch, play and tease. She leaned closer to press a kiss to his skin just below his belly button, trying to decide if she’d work her way up or down from there. His eyes slid closed at that, and he gasped, arching under her just from that one barely-there touch.

And then she had it - he smelled different. There was that usual smell she knew as his: the way it smelled in his clinic, the scents he carried with him everywhere in the folds of his clothes, in his hair, on his skin: bitter herbal incense he burned during clinic hours to cover up smells of blood, vomit, all other scents of various diseases and afflictions. Potion ingredients, the grassy smells of mashed plants. A hint of ozone that lingered in the air after a long healing spell. And, of course, the unmistakable whiff of sewage.

Now he smelled of cheap flowery soap and fresh sweat and musk, and nothing else. Even his clothes smelled clean. The tunic still was a little damp, as if he’d had in laundered sometimes between their first kiss and now.

“Did you have your clothes washed?” she asked. His thick trousers were splitting at the seams, held together by string and spare bandages, falling apart from the use they’d seen, and yet they smelled like new as well - with a hint of lavender, no less. “Was that why you were so late?”

“I wanted this to be perfect,” he said. “You deserve so much better than… Well, I can’t take the credit, my patients helped. Once you left, I had people coming to give me their best soap and razors, a few offered to braid my hair… They were bringing me new clothes, too, but honestly, they need them more - I mean, you’ve seen me in this already. I thought…”

She leaned in again an kissed up his torso, licked and stroked the hollows between his ribs, far too sharp, and pressed her palm and her kisses over his hammering heart. He reached to stroke her face again and she caught his hand and kissed it too, suddenly choked, shivering, scared.

He was immensely dear to her already: she was honoured to know him, and would die to protect him. He was important, vital to so many people: the refugees, the poor, the mages. Helping him made her feel important too. Her purpose, her whole place in the fabric of life, used to be so simple. Protect Bethany, look after Carver, provide for Mother. Now she was a loose thread, and she’d love nothing more than to cling to this man and make him the centre and the new meaning of her life. Take him under her skin, into the inner core of her heart…

There was a feeling of a dam about to break, something in her chest, in her mind drawing close to snapping. That’s what people meant, she thought, when they talked about falling for someone. That’s how it felt: a tipping point, and then a free fall at the mercy of gravity, utter helplessness, constant fear, waiting for the inevitable, and in the end - crushing, heart-rending pain.

“It would kill me to lose you too,” she said.

She sat back on her heels, clutching her suddenly cold hands into fists. There was worry in his eyes, tension in his arms. He probably already guessed where this was going.

He said he’d cherish falling in love. He didn’t say he’d fallen already. It was a reach, she knew, but she’d take it.

“Let’s not - there’s no need to rush things,” she said. “Should we think about love right away? Can’t we just have this?”

She reached for the bulge in his trousers, about to cup it and hopefully render him unable to object. Her other hand was on his belt buckle already. That was her hope - once lust would properly kick in and glaze everything over, he’d be fine with that, he’d see how this was better.

He abruptly sat up and pulled away from her.

“What?” he said, blinking rapidly, struggling for air, as if stricken by sudden panic. “We - we talked about this! Do you just… want to use me?”

“I hope it will be mutual,” she said, still trying to smile, but she knew: that was it, she did it. She ruined this.

Maybe with someone else that could have worked. She’d be able to explain, to slow things down, to go forward at her own pace, and still keep him here, in the place it took her three years to coax him into.

But not with Anders. Not after twenty years of breathing the poisoned air of the Circle, not after a year alone in a cell. No matter how hard he fought to be free in body, mind and spirit, the Circle still had its claws in him, and probably always would. The lessons he’d been forced to learn there still lingered. This rejection was the proof of what he still secretly believed about himself and every mage. No matter any the evidence to contrary, no matter everything she told him, everything he’d said to himself and others countless times. It only needed a slightest push for these beliefs to come crashing back: he was unworthy of love. No mage was worthy of love.

“Wait,” she said, watching him pull further from her. This was a nightmare, slowly unfolding before her eyes. She was hurting him. She was losing him. The very thing she was afraid of, was too weak to face even the possibility of it somewhere down the line - and she caused it, made it happen right now. “I didn’t say that right.”

“Is this because of Fenris? Do you still love him?”

“It’s nothing to do with him. It’s…”

She took a breath to steady herself and tried to explain as plainly as she could.

“You always said you’d break my heart,” she said. “And I finally know what you meant. I know you will. Every love ends in tragedy. The way you keep me out of everything you do - I know I won’t be able to protect you. You won’t give me the chance. I will lose you. I always told you to go for it, take my heart, have it, break it… But now… I’m just learning to be alone. I’m just walking out of the woods now, and I want to have this peace. I earned it. I can’t have my heart broken again. Not again, not yet. It’s too much, too soon. There’s only so much pain I can take.”

Too much, too soon, I can’t. That’s what Fenris had said when he walked out on her. She hadn’t understood him then, muddled by confusion, shame and hurt. Anders wasn’t going to take this any better.

“Then, if that’s how you feel… Why am I here?” Anders asked. His eyes were red already, but to her relief, still dry.

“Because I want you. I need you. I thought we could give each other some pleasure and solace. I thought--”

“Well, I thought you wanted something deeper,” he said. “You should have gone to Isabela for that.”

He rolled off the bed, grabbed his clothes and headed for the door.

“Wait,” she pleaded, and he shook his head and backed away.

“I need to go, I need to be alone,” he muttered. He was shaking visibly, trying to hide his eyes. Hawke wondered, fleetingly, why wasn’t Justice coming out to smite her. Anders said he didn’t approve of her to start with, and now he had to be furious with her. But there was no hint of blue on Anders’ crumpling face.

“Please,” she said and he stopped, teeth bared, grimacing, as if in physical pain. There was a short silence, while she wracked her brains for the right thing to say.

The house wasn’t quiet, despite the late hour. There were raised voices coming from the lobby: the household was fighting again. At least that hadn’t changed.

“Is that Isabela?” Anders asked. “Really? Is she waiting in reserve, in case I wouldn't scratch the itch?”

He pushed the door open and looked down over the railing, and Hawke followed him.

Isabela really was there, locked in a screaming match with Aveline.

“Why?” Hawke groaned. “What in the Maker’s hairy sack do you want? This is an exceptionally bad time for me!”

They tilted their heads up and stared.

“Who is that?” Aveline asked.

“Seriously?” Anders blew errant strands of hair off his nose and glared. “You don’t recognise me without my coat?”

“I wasn’t sure it even came off! Hawke, I thought you were with Merrill! Are you cheating on her with him?”

“I’m not with Merrill! She’s like sister to me, where did that come from?”

“Well, remember, that girls’ trip we took?” Aveline said. “Merrill asked me to arrange that whole ruse with Donnic and the second tent, so you and she could have your privacy!”

“Isabela was there too, in case you forgot,” Hawke said, and then remembered that, per Merrill’s plan, that was not a drawback but an advantage.

“Yeah, I remember she was there with you, but until just now I didn’t even think to question that…”

Anders made a sound between a laugh and a sob and moved to the stairs, still hugging his crumpled outer layers to his chest in an untidy heap. Hawke caught his wrist, and he flinched under her touch, but not, she thought, in a bad way. He still burned for her as much as she did for him. She could still coax him back.

“Please, we didn’t finish our conversation. It’s important to me that we do,” she said. “All right, you two, what do I need to do to get rid of you?”

“The city is on a brink of war,” Aveline said. “Do you think you can put - whatever this is - on hold for that?”

“And I’m about to die!” Isabela said. “Unless you get me out of this, I’m done for. So, if you not going to help me, we might as well say our goodbyes, reminisce of the good times we had and all that.”

“Does this have to be right now?”

“Yes!” yelled they both in unison.

Hawke sighed and punched at the railing, relishing both the bright simplicity of the pain in her knuckles and the satisfying thud that vibrated through the whole staircase.

“We’ll help Isabela first,” she decided. “Aveline, you’re with us. We’ll do it quick and save the city next.”

“Hawke,” Aveline asked in her best disapproving voice. “Are you honestly going to prioritise her sob story over, quite possibly, every life in Kirkwall? You know whatever she got herself into is her own fault!”

“I see you point,” Hawke said. “But, in a shocking turn of events, I’ll be counting on the hundreds of Kirkwall’s guards and templars to keep shit together for a few hours. If we don’t help Isabela, who will? Who else does she have?”

Isabela’s face was strangely soft, surprised, but there was no time to dwell on that.

“Anders,” Hawke said, still holding onto his wrist. “Can you come with us? We really still need to talk, I hope we’ll have a moment…”

“Of course I’ll help,” he said. “If it was up to me, you’d never go into battle without a healer.”

He began unravelling his clothes, awkwardly shifting them in his arms. She took him by the shoulders and pulled him back into her bedroom.

“Help me gear up,” she said. “The sooner this is done with, the sooner we can - we’ll figure this out together.”

She pulled her battle leathers from her chest, got fresh underclothes from the wardrobe, dumped it all on the bed and shrugged off the robes.

Anders blinked at her in awe and dropped his gaze to the floor, and only then she remembered: they hadn’t reached that part yet. Somehow she already thought of them as lovers, as if that first kiss had been every kind of consummation at once. He’d not even seen her naked yet - well, he had now.

She stepped to him, went onto her tiptoes, put her naked arms around him and reached for a kiss.

He hesitated just for a moment, and then hugged her back, reverently pressed his palms to her naked skin and kissed her, with the same heat, need and fearless, boundless love as before.

“I’ll make everything all right,” she promised.

“Everything is already perfect,” he said, and softly kissed her forehead. “Don’t worry. Some things I’d said… It was just a moment of confusion. Everything is just as it should be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in my commitment to angst and slow burn, I decided that Hawke would finish Act 2 still single. At least it’s canon that things with Fenris don’t quite work out at first, but… yes. I don’t know what was harder, writing this or playing through breakup options for research.
> 
> Obviously it will eventually work out. But first, Angst.


	15. Glory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke becomes the Champion of Kirkwall, not that she notices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Arishok duel time! There's some mildly gory impalement and surgery content.

“I accept your challenge, of course,” Hawke said. “What a great idea, a real honour, looking forward to it. I just need a moment to talk to my companions, to say my - I just need a moment.”

The Arishok nodded his heavy head and hefted his sword, still stained with the Viscount’s blood.

“Take your time,” he said. “They will remember you well, I am certain.”

Hawke turned to her friends and produced a smile that felt more like rictus.

“So, I’m just going to duel the Arishok really quickly,” she said. “And then we call it a day and go out for beer and herrings.”

There was not a single smile in return, not a fake word of cheer.

“Hawke, please,” said Anders. “Please, don’t do this. Look at him.”

“I have looked at him,” Hawke agreed. “For a few years now, and yeah, he’s pretty big. If you have a better plan, I’m all ears.”

“Not for me,” Isabela said. “Hawke, it’s not worth it. I’ll go. I’ll escape, you know me, I’m a slippery little snake. I’ll be back before supper. Hey, big guy--”

“The challenge has been issued and accepted,” the Arishok said. “You can’t back out now.”

“I’m not going to.” Hawke gave him a little fist pump over her shoulder. Varric stepped closer and whispered into the small space between them:

“Let’s go for it. Fight together, like we always do. Turtle up at the bottom of these stairs, Fenris will keep them off Anders, I’ll take out the spear throwers, you and Isabela gang up on the Arishok…”

That could have worked, if not for the two Saarebas at the back of the room. Hawke eyed the distance to their silent collared shapes. She could reach them if she charged across the room, even if she had to take few spears to her back on the way. She could take down one, definitely. Isabela could handle another. They’d both be mowed down by Stens’ blades right after, but if they fell on these steps, where Anders could still reach them, if he could spare a moment from keeping Fenris and Varric alive…

“We’d lose the hostages,” she whispered back. She could see them from here, huddled against the wall, Qunari spears almost in their faces. The lady on the right, in a lavender day dress, was one of Leandra’s friends from her Thursday music salon crowd.

She gave Varric a reassuring pat on the arm and tried to gather her wits. Just in case: that was a thought beating inside her skull in trembling circles. Just in case, not really last words, not really goodbyes, this is just in case. Something profound for Bethany. Ask Fenris if he’d adopt Bear, he was her favourite. Tell Varric she didn’t have a will. Tell Anders - Maker, what could she tell Anders like this, with everyone watching?

“Fight well,” said Fenris abruptly. His hand flew up, the ends of the red ribbon fluttering. For a moment Hawke thought he’d cup her face, maybe draw her in for a kiss. Instead he clasped her shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze, and her whole back suddenly loosened under his touch, a dozen of cold knots in her muscles unravelling.

“You’ll win this,” he said. “There’s no doubt in my mind. You’re a formidable, clever foe. It will be a hard fight, but you’ll win on wits and endurance.”

“What are you doing?” Anders hissed at him, looking ready to pry them apart. “Why are you encouraging this--”

“Hawke’s mind is made up,” Fenris said. “Now she needs our faith.”

They could see her panic, she thought, queasy with both nerves and shame. They all saw how scared she was.

“Oh, of course you’ll win,” Varric said. “I just meant - I didn’t want to miss out on the fun, that was all. Of course you’ll win. It’s not the size, it’s how you use it, I’m telling you this as a dwarf and as a man. Don’t hesitate to head-butt his nuts and bite his nipples if the opportunity presents itself.”

“This is hardly the time for foreplay,” said Isabela. “Hawke, I’m sorry, I know you had the hots for him at one point, but that ship has sailed, I think. Don’t play with his tits, just kill him. You can do it. I’ve seen all your moves, I know you’ll be fine. I’ll buy you those herrings once we’re done here.”

Anders heaved a shaky sigh and touched her cheek, and once again she felt that flush of warmth, a soft caress beyond human touch. She waited, but he seemed choked up, struggling to keep a calm face. It was difficult to watch, so Hawke stepped back and drew her blades.

“Ready?” she asked, and the Arishok saluted her with a grotesquely huge hammer he picked up to compliment his main hand sword.

“Ready, basalit-an.”

Hawke rushed him and got a couple of superficial cuts in, mostly on pure fear-fuelled burst of speed. He backhanded her with the pommel of his sword and she flew across the room, vision blank, desperately clutching her daggers. This wasn’t Orlesian chevalier swordplay. If she dropped her weapons he wasn’t going to step back, bow and let her pick them up.

“Strategic retreat! I’m fine!” she yelled, rolling onto her feet.

Half of her face was numb, and her left eye was nearly blind, streaming with tears. If he rushed her just then, it would have been over. She didn’t have the space, the balance or the presence of mind to dodge.

But he walked at her slowly, swinging his wide blade in loops and circles, warming his sword arm for the final flashy cleave. Hawke gulped in air, ignored the throb in her skull and charged again. She ran right at him, making him slow down a touch to ready for an easy parry. As his arms went up she dove down, dropped, rolled and sprung up behind him, and plunged her blades low into his back.

It didn’t do much - he barely flinched. She missed both kidneys. She twisted the blades as she ripped them out, to tear the wounds,  but she already knew they wouldn’t bleed enough to make a difference.

At least the pain made him a touch too slow to turn and counter, and she was away again, dancing just outside the reach of his sword.

His posture barely changed, but his expression softened a little. He was, she thought, enjoying this. He’d been unsure about fighting her. He’d always had a soft spot for her, but for all his grudging respect for her diplomatic skills, her busybody tendencies, her good humour and shiny hair, he clearly hadn’t thought she’d be a challenge, or anything but a wet smear on the floor after he took the first swing at her.

She’d always liked him too. She’d done her honest best to uphold the peace, such as it was in Kirkwall, to keep the Chantry from blaming the Qunari for every atrocity under the sun, to keep the Arishok’s frayed temper from snapping. His Qun was no better than the Chant, but so what - Anders was a devout Andrastean, Fenris and Aveline loved the Circles, and she somehow got along with them just fine. Her and the Arishok could have become friends, too, if things went differently.

So this was their last dance, their last conversation. He was going to give her a good, clean warrior’s death, and honour her passing, she was sure. Really, the worst has already happened. Isabela came through beautifully, and no more deaths were necessary. If he hadn’t beheaded the poor Viscount, if he would agree to leave Isabela be, Hawke might have tried to hug the Arishok goodbye.

But now only one of them would leave this room, and these odds were, frankly, ridiculous.

She couldn’t get near him. Maybe she could surprise him once or twice more, and that would exhaust her bag of tricks. But even if she managed to create an opening, she’d need more than one lucky stab to his stomach, neck or groin to finish this. He’d still fight her with a perforated lung, or bleeding from a gut wound, or with an eye taken out, she had no doubt about that.

She suddenly wished she’d fought more Vashoth in the mountains. She knew the weak points of human, dwarven, even elven bodies as well as a butcher knows their way around a chicken carcass. She was severely lacking in experience with kossith, and the Arishok, surely a veteran of Seheron, didn’t have that problem. His blades must have known countless Tevinter bodies.

So there was only guesswork. There was no way she’d even attempt to put a knife through his skull. The horns could have sockets or roots, and the skull bones themselves had to be a lot thicker than human or dwarven to support all that weight. She couldn’t fatally gut him in the split second she’d have if she got in range. She didn’t think her blade would find his heart even if it was, on a Qunari his size, exactly where she expected it to sit. Not through his armour and the thick slab of his chest muscle.

She just had to keep her breath, stay out of his reach, and keep going. There was a small chance she would outlast him. He was bleeding where she’d cut him, sluggishly - these were all only flesh wounds - but if she drew this out long enough it would slow him down.

Unless he would take a potion. According to Isabela, potions were well within normal rules of a duel: it was just another part of being well-equipped, same as benefiting from sturdy armour or good blades.

In any case, the problem with staying out of his reach was just this: the room was not very big.

Hawke accepted that their fight would be mostly an exercise in indignity. Nobody expected her to stand her ground, parry his sword and axe with her daggers and muscle him into the defencive stance. She was bringing her own strength to this, and that was, simply put, not being where his blade would fall: running, dodging, running again.

She baited him into taking a few huge swings that left his side open, and stung him with a few more shallow cuts. Every time his sword crashed into the floor, the wall, or the pillar where she’d been half a heartbeat before, and peppered her with stone dust.

She didn’t dare to glance at her friends, but she could feel their eyes on her. She hoped these were the looks of admiration: this was easily the best battle she ever fought. She darted around the thick pillars, springing up just behind the Arishok’s swing to slash at his elbows, armpits, stab at his naked back. There were a dozen wounds on him already, some quite deep, and he didn’t seem to care at all.

He was always going to win this, and he’d always known that. There was little that could be done to overcome the opponent’s superior strength, bulk and reach in melee. There was a reason why every fighter, even the slinkiest assassin, always trained for strength. A smaller fighter could win, of course - if they had superior skill and experience.

Hawke didn’t have it. She’d had a few years of lessons as a child, on a whim, an indulgence her parents allowed, taught on the cheap by old wash-outs from the Guilds and an occasional army veteran. She had three weeks of group drills in the army. And since then there were only street skirmishes with bandits and slavers, and she hardly ever fought alone. All her strategies assumed Fenris or Aveline holding the heavies away from her, all her cleverest moves were about exposing the enemy to Isabela’s blade or Varric’s arrow, and she always knew: if she made a mistake, Anders was there to catch her.

She wasn’t an expert with a blade, far from it. She wasn’t a fighter by trade. She was a farmer, a petty criminal, and now a layabout noble. The Arishok was the supreme general of his race, bred and raised for the single purpose of being the greatest warrior of them all, a leader, an inspiration. Of course he was going to win this.

Hawke was slowing down, even though he’d barely put a scratch on her yet. But then, his sword wasn’t going to leave little nicks and superficial wounds like the ones she was giving him. The first solid hit he’d land was going to kill her. She was getting winded - she’d been weaving around him, making a dozen steps every time she needed him to turn. There was a tremble in her hands and the beginnings of a tired fog in her head, and there was only one sure thing left to try before she’d be too tired to execute it correctly.

She had to get close, just for a split moment. She tried sliding under the swipes of his sword, muscle inside his swing to get to his shoulders and at least attempt to control his arm. He kicked her away like she was an obnoxious pigeon, and this time, as she was rolling back onto her feet, the axe crashed into the floor a finger away from her shoulder, through her pauldron.

If it was a little bit blunter she’d be pinned down there, and the Arishok could crush her ribcage with one foot, if he wanted. But the leather split, and Hawke flew up onto her feet again. She turned to face him, threw herself at the opening as he was pulling his axe out of that chink in the floor - and got there just a touch too late.

He roared with joy and thrust his sword through her lower stomach.

He jerked her up like a trophy, to display her to the whole room: impaled, her legs dangling, her arms uselessly jerking at her sides. The pain robbed her of breath, but she didn’t black out, as she’d feared she might. It was almost too much to comprehend, to believe: that length of steel inside her gut, next to her spine, slickly moving through her flesh.

Fenris probably felt like this when the lyrium was laid through his skin, she thought. This was fine, she was all right, she wouldn’t be afraid. Anders would catch her.

She threw a quick glance at them. It was almost too fast to see anything, but she knew she’d remember them: like an afterimage of the sun, the sight will unfold in her mind even after she turned away. Varric had his finger under Bianca’s trigger, ready to swing her up at the Arishok, ignoring a dozen of spears aimed at him. Anders was as pale as the washed walls around them, his eyes dark and sunken. Isabela clung to his side, wrenching both his elbows back, whispering something to him. If Justice took over - if he or Anders tried to get a spell out, neither of them would survive this.

Justice had no reason to show up, though. There was no injustice happening here. Hawke might not be a good match for the Arishok, but still, in every way that counted, this was fair.

Fenris had his gauntleted hands crossed and firmly clapped around his arms. His face, pinched and hard, was still hopeful. He still believed, still waited for her to deliver that miracle. He seemed to be the only one who realised what she’d been trying to do.

The Arishok always knew he’d win this fight. That was the only weakness Hawke had to work with. He had no doubt he’d crush her, he felt safe and confident, and he fell for this dumb trap like she knew he would.

Hawke kicked with her legs, slipped a hand’s width further on his blade and with a swift flick of her daggers opened the arteries on his neck, both sides.

He threw her off just as the hot blood spray hit her face. The slide of the sword out of her flesh hurt more than going in, and still she didn’t faint, to her silent, vicious triumph. They both grabbed a potion and began to drink, holding each other’s eyes, like lushes at a chugging contest at the Hanged Man.

By the time her bottle was empty she was on her feet. Her stomach and thighs were wet with cooling blood, but her muscles were knitting up, tightening inside her in slick disgusting jerks.

The Arishok’s half-finished vial slipped from his fingers. His wounds had closed, but it was too late. He’d bled too much already. He had enough life left in him for a few final words, and then he was gone.

Hawke lifted her bloody blades, stared down the rest of Qunari in the room and screamed at them, something senseless, wordless and savage.

They bowed shallowly, in deference. Two of the Stens came forward to pick up the Arishok’s body, and then they all quietly left: with the relic, without Isabela.

Suddenly the room flooded with people, humans. The Knight-Commander of the Gallows was here, delivering a speech. A handsome woman, Hawke thought dimly. For a templar.

Hawke nodded, even though the words were far away, incomprehensible, and tried to bow. The floor opened up under her, rocked gently from under her feet, and she would have fallen, but Anders was right here. He caught her.

He lowered her onto the floor, pushed her blood-matted hair off her face, gave her a manic smile and laid his hands on the half-mended gash in her abdomen.

“No, wait,” she grunted and grabbed his wrists.

“The templars are gone. And I wouldn’t care if they were watching,” he said. “Love, you have to let me, the potion only did half the work.”

“No, no. Don’t heal me, not yet. You know what potions do. Look where it went.”

He checked and couldn’t hide a little pained grimace. It was as she’d feared, then. Healing potions gave a burst of crude, forced mending, knitted any torn flesh and vessels together. There were always ugly scars afterwards, often worse. She’d heard plenty of stories about people who took a potion for a gut wound and died days later from bowel obstruction. Some took a potion and lived, but never walked again. Some recovered from a near fatal chest wound but were left in permanent pain, their strength sapped and their skin always corpse-blue.

The Arishok’s blade had been wide enough to ravage half her torso. It hit where her womb would be, and the potion likely had left a knot of scarred meat in its place.

“Can you fix it?” she asked.

“Not… safely,” he said. “I would have to undo all the healing that’s already happened. I’d have to take you back to the brink of death. Don’t ask me this, love, please. You wouldn’t even know there are scars or fusions. You won’t be in any pain. There’s no need to torture you, or to risk your life.”

“Please fix me,” she begged. She’d never given any thought to her fecundity before, but right now, in the haze of pain and blood loss, nothing seemed more important. She’d get on her feet and fight a squad of the Qunari right now, she’d tear darkspawn and giant spiders with her bare hands, she’d do anything rather than accept this - that she was mutilated forever, left without a future. “I’m the last one, the last Hawke. It’s my only chance for a family. Don’t leave me like this.”

He shook his head and she clutched at his hand. The light was dimming, and it was getting harder to see his face, but she kept trying to peer at him, to persuade him.

“Are you done, is she fine?” Fenris said somewhere near. “Sorry, Hawke, are you still - we’ll give you privacy - Hawke?”

“Please don’t let him heal me,” she said and tried to curl her own hands into the wound, to somehow guess at the damage.

Anders’ hand lit up, and she recoiled from it, growling, powerless to defend herself, and it all went dark.

 

It took her a while to orient herself when she could see again. The pain was worse than it had been, almost as bad as having the sword back in her gut, but she was in Anders’ arms, cradled against him like a bride, and that made everything better. She butted her head into his chest and tried to crane her neck up to meet his eyes.

He smiled down at her and gave her legs a little reassuring squeeze.

“We’re going to the clinic,” he said. “We’ll try. You’re very strong, Hawke, you were supposed to stay under this sleep spell for a while yet.”

“We’re not moving,” she noted groggily. He wasn’t walking, just stood there. They seemed to still be in Hightown somewhere: she could smell the market, its perfumes and spices, even through the stink of smoke and her own blood. All around them were sounds of battle, clanging of metal, screams and grunts of warrior doing their job.

“Ran into some looters,” Anders said. “We were trying not to engage, but we spooked them. I’ll put you down if the others need my help.”

They didn’t. Anders stood in the middle of the circle they made with their ranks closed, snuggled her to his chest and waited it out. Once it was done he called out to Merrill, and her sweet, smiling face popped next to his and peered down at Hawke.

“Already awake!” she said chidingly. And then, with one wave of her fingers, Hawke wasn’t awake anymore.

 

Some time must have passed: Hawke was conscious again, and she was in sheer agony. She would scream, she’d scream her lungs out, but she couldn’t make a sound, couldn’t move at all, couldn’t even open her eyes. She was breathing somehow, but couldn’t hold an exhale or draw a fuller one.

Somewhere above her left ear Fenris was yelling, angrier than she’d ever heard him:

“You risked her life - Hawke’s life! - for this? This? Once she’s healed, I’ll kill you myself!”

“It’s what she asked him to do,” Merrill said. She sounded very calm, steady.

“She wouldn’t do that! He’s lying! It must be his design. He’s slithered into her bed now, he’d use her as his brood mare, to tie her to him so she’d never be rid of him!”

The pain spiked suddenly and went beyond any measure. In her mute, still horror Hawke kept breathing steadily, as if someone was pumping her lungs like bellows in a smithy. There was crushing, burning pressure in her chest - she was sure it was her heart about to give out, tearing itself up, and she was ready to welcome it as a reprieve. But it only lasted a moment, and then the pain levelled to barely unbearable again.

“Hold the spell, don’t get distracted,” Merrill said. “Fenris, I found that bleed, I need you to phase your hand right in here--”

“She’s awake,” said Fenris, his voice reedy with panic. “She’s awake, she feels this!”

“I know. I’m holding her, she won’t flinch. I can’t put her to sleep again, if I release her now to cast it she will bleed out. If Anders breaks this spell he’s channeling she will die. Now, reach inside her and we’ll seal the bleed.”

And he did, and she felt it, and, thankfully, finally passed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, there are many different ways to make a family, but Hawke wasn't in a great place for clear thinking just then. She's fine, anyway.
> 
> One chapter left before the time skip and Act 3! Of course it's going to be pure bedside h/c but it's important to me. 
> 
> Not gonna lie, I'm really looking forward to replaying Act 3 and specifically The Last Straw "for research".


	16. Bed Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang takes care of wounded Hawke. They're not very good at it.

Hawke was in Merrill’s arms, her ringing head pillowed on her friend’s narrow shoulder.

Merrill’s voice wove a soothing, sweet thread through the haze and confusion in Hawke’s mind. At first Hawke thought it was all in elven, a lullaby or an ancient spell. But eventually the words came to her, as if from afar, even though Merrill was whispering right into her ear.

“She doesn’t understand why you’d do that for her. Even though she came back for you, she doesn’t know why you chose to fight for her. It scares her a little, because she’s never really had a clan, or someone who truly cared, and this is all new. She thinks you’ll want something in return. Love, gratitude, service. I tried to explain, but I think she needs time, or maybe to run off again for a bit. She’ll figure it out. She’ll see you simply didn’t have a choice. Isn’t it strange, that the more options you have, the less choice there is? When you’re a child, small and powerless, you can choose how to misbehave, which tree to climb, what chore to shirk. But once you have wits and strength to do whatever your want, once you have the power to help the ones you love, to do the right thing, that’s it. All choice is gone.”

Hawke tried to speak, but could barely turn her fuzzy, huge tongue in her mouth. Merrill’s fingers slipped a freshly conjured lump of ice past Hawke’s lips, and she sucked on it greedily, suddenly aware of her thirst.

“We’ll give you water soon, we’re almost done,” Merrill said. “Just need to top up your blood a little. Sorry, I couldn’t catch it all.”

Their hands were clasped together, Merrill’s fingers locked with Hawke’s. A ring of red mist circled both their wrists, slowly turning, pulsing. Hawke’s whole arm burned from wrist to shoulder, as if the red cloud leaked fire under her skin, but her hand was icy and numb against Merrill’s.

“I can’t put my blood into your veins, that would kill you,” Merrill said. “But, well, a little magic and it’s all good! We did our best, I think you’ll be fine. It’ll take some time to heal up, though, best take it slowly. Lots of bed rest.”

Someone was crouched on the floor next to Hawke’s cot, painfully dry-retching into a bucket. She tried to lift her head to look, but Merrill hugged her closer and blocked all else from sight.

“Fenris helped us a lot,” she whispered. “But I think this reminded him of, you know, what Danarius did to him. Blood magic and surgery, I should have thought. It was probably even worse for him to see you like this, and it didn’t help that you woke up. Sorry about that, too, by the way. But he was so brave, he finished everything before - well.”

The clinic’s door flew open, and Anders came in, his staff in hand, the end still sparkling with residual magic.

“Yes, they’re definitely heading here, someone tipped them off,” he said before he caught Hawke’s eyes. He gave her a little awkward smile and came closer to lay a hand on her arm. She would have been grateful just for a simple touch, but there was magic there, a flood of warmth that instantly pushed pain and fatigue away. “Fenris, are you done there?”

“Yes,” said Fenris flatly and got to his feet, wiping his mouth, keeping his back to Hawke.

“I’ll deal with them, but you should move Hawke to a safer place. Is she ready?”

“Almost,” said Merrill. “Her pulse is getting stronger.”

“No,” Fenris said. “I’ll stay and fight. You take her, she should have a healer with her.”

“Who, what,” Hawke mumbled, but Merrill squeezed her tighter and made a familiar spell sign with her free hand.

“Don’t worry about that now, Hawke. Just go back to sleep.”

 

When Hawke woke up again, it was to near darkness. She blinked through it until her watering eyes adjusted enough to see the familiar canopy of her own bed.

She was home, in her bedroom, laid atop the covers in the middle of the bed like a corpse about to be dressed for the pyre. She wore one of her nightshirts, and her midriff felt swathed in bandages.

A lamp was burning low on her desk in the corner, and there was a sound of a quill quickly scratching on paper coming from there.

“Anders?” she called, and just exhaling hard enough to make that sound was a mistake. Fiery pain tore at her middle and she arched her head back into the pillow, choking down a moan.

“It’s me.” Fenris moved into her line of sight and sat on the edge of the bed. “Anders is asleep. He took too many potions and ended up with mana imbalance. We made him go to bed to recover, nobody wants him to miscast at your healing session tomorrow. He’s in the next room, just behind that wall. Do you need him? Is the pain worse?”

“No,” she said carefully, quietly. “Let him rest. Was there trouble?”

“In Darktown, right after Qunari invasion? Yes, shockingly, there was some. We should have taken you straight home instead, but he needed his healing supplies. As if you don’t have plenty of knives, rags and needles right here. Don’t worry, we’re all fine.”

“Good. Where’s my mabari?”

Hawke suddenly needed Bear by her side, wanted to clutch at her, share her warmth and bask in her uncomplicated, unconditional affection. She was in pain, miserable, afraid to move, and she needed comfort. She wanted her dog.

“She wouldn’t stop howling and trying to jump on the bed. We were worried she’d jostle your wound.”

“She’s not stupid.”

“She seemed too upset to behave. Aveline took her out to patrol with the guard. They’ll be at it all night, the city is full of looters and marauders.”

“Oh, well, fine, I guess they can use the help. Were you writing?”

“Catching up on my daily practice.”

He showed her a page he was working on, just a few clean, sure lines of text. The first one was a single word: ‘Hawke’.

“Is that for me?” she asked, squinting at it through the dark.

“A ‘Get Well’ letter. That had been a custom in noble houses of Minrathous, and I don’t see why I shouldn’t sent one to you. You’ll be bedridden for a while. It might be fun for us to correspond in the meantime.”

“You can visit.”

“I’ll visit as well as write. That was a glorious battle, Hawke. Well fought. I’m envious, I wish it could have been me, the exhilaration of facing such a foe must be...”

He fell silent, staring at the few small blotches of blood that had seeped through her nightshirt.

“I wish I could have taken this wound for you, but there’s no point in wishful thinking, is there? Anders said you should drink some water when you wake. Are you ready to try?”

His armour was off, and his hands were bare. He slipped one palm under her head and gently held her up while he brought a cup to her lips and tipped a few small gulps into her mouth.

“How’s everyone?” she asked when he eased her back onto the pillow.

“Worried, of course. I’ve never seen Varric this drunk before. Anders is... well, he knows he needs to heal you, he’ll hold himself together. Isabela blames herself, but Merrill is with her, they’re fine. Aveline - oh, Aveline has been sharing some gossip.”

“Has she now,” Hawke muttered resignedly.

“I have already told Anders that if he breaks your heart I’ll rip out his. I believe that’s what friends do.”

He pulled his feet up and curled up cross-legged on her bed, looking strangely comfortable in a deep slouch with his elbows on his knees. The light from the lamp only picked out the outline of his ear and the curve of his cheek. His eyes glowed mutely in the dark, mirror-flat and expressionless like this, but she could tell he was smiling.

“Sometimes,” she said and grinned too. “But honestly, there’s no need. First of all, if I want someone’s heart ripped out, I can do it myself. My moves aren’t as flashy as yours, but people end up just as dead. Secondly, no. Nobody is going to break my heart. Apparently I’m too much of a coward now to leave my heart open like that. Pathetic, really, what I’ve become. Wasn’t adversity supposed to build my character?”

“Not really, no,” he said. “Adversity doesn’t do that. If it did, every whipping would make a slave less compliant, and that’s now how whips work. Not even metaphorical ones.”

He paused, picking at the loose threads on her covers.

“Hawke, you’re... You’re as strong as ever. You’ve been hurt, and I’m sorry for my part in that. But you’ll heal.”

“You didn’t hurt me. Fenris, if anything, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It wasn’t your fault. The memories, the hatred, that poison that numbs me to everything good - I know exactly who is to blame. But enough of that, I’m sure neither of us wants to talk about it. So, are you and Anders really together now?”

“Uh,” Hawke said. She wasn’t entirely sure where they left it off, and there hadn’t been a quiet moment since for them to figure it out. “Why?”

“Well, for one, I promised Isabela I might consider trying to have sex with her after you moved on.”

“Might consider trying?” she chuckled, and had to press her hand on the bandages to hold back a new blaze of pain. “That’s not very binding! She should talk to Varric about contract law, she needs help there. And, honestly, if you’re tying your romantic success to mine you’re clearly not in a hurry to get some. Isabela should have known better than fall for this.”

“I’m not in a hurry,” he agreed. “I’m tempted, of course. She’s... certainly something.”

“You should go for it. Don’t wait for me, I don’t know why you would. It’ll be better with her. She has experience with - uh - she has more experience, I’m not even ashamed to say that. She’ll know how to make it better for you.”

“It’s not something other people can fix for me,” he said with a shrug. “Anyway, I think she might be over me. She never even told me you’ve already moved on, months ago. You slept with her at Aveline’s party, didn’t you?”

“Uhh. Did Aveline tell you about that too? She’s been an awful gossip all along, wasn’t she?”

“Donnic is even worse. Maybe he’s been a bad influence on her?”

Hawke tried to smile, searched for another light-hearted quip to toss at him, but she was suddenly deathly tired, as if she’d spent too much breath on talking. She could just see his shoulders stiffen and his ears nervously twitch as her face went numb and roaring black void rose around her, swirling in a fast, widening circle, ready to suck her in.

“Anders!” she heard him yell, and still had time to think: no, no, let him rest.

 

She came about again near dawn, when the room was no longer quite dark, a chilly colourless grey. Hawke’s thickest blanket was drawn up to her chin and tucked carefully under her feet.

Someone was at her desk, writing. His shadow stretched over the ceiling toward her: the familiar, ragged silhouette, his strong nose, the mess of feathers at his shoulders.

“Anders?” she called. “Where’s Fenris?”

“I banished him,” said the voice she didn’t recognise at first, a strange, reverberating sound, as if two mouths were speaking at once. “He was too distraught to be of use.”

“Justice?”

He stiffly rose from the chair and walked over to stand at the foot of the bed and glare down at her. He seemed bigger than Anders somehow, more imposing, both taller and broader. That had to be the glow, or the different way he held Anders’ body.

“Where’s Anders?” she asked, nervously twisting her fingers in the folds of the blanket. It was a stupid thing to say: Anders was right here, obviously, somewhere underneath all the blue.

“I am Anders,” he intoned angrily. She could barely tell when he blinked: his light poured out right through his eyelids, and his eyes still look the same even when closed.

“Why are you,” she started, wondering how to best phrase her question: are you here for me, are you about to smite me for hurting your friend? “Did you want to talk to me?”

“No,” he said, though his glower didn’t seem any less threatening. “Anders needed a rest. His mind was overwhelmed and his body overtaxed. I--”

“Is that what you do when he’s asleep?” she asked, instantly furious. That had been her constant fear, something Anders had always refused to discuss: that Justice might be asking too much of him. “Drag his unconscious body on solo adventures? No wonder he looks so tired, you’re working him to death!”

“I do not,” he said, with a childishly defensive whine in his voice. “The only way he would rest today was to have me watch over you. I still had to push him under, he wouldn’t settle by himself. I respect his needs and desires. Even unwise ones.”

They stared at each other in silence until she ran out of patience and pulled her arms from under the blanket to gesture at him.

“Come on, then,” she said. “Let me have it, speak your mind. You don’t like me, right?”

“I do,” he said. “I like you. I love you. Me and Anders are one, I feel his love for you, I can’t help it. You’ve been a great ally to us. A treasured friend. But we can’t be more. Your path and ours will diverge soon. Anders knew that. And still he refused to accept it.”

“Why do we have to… diverge?” she asked, a little stunned by his confession, blunt, bitter and as romantic as a doorstop.

“It must be. As long as the templars hold your sister hostage there are things we can’t ask of you. As long as you hold his heart in your hands there are things I can’t ask of him. But more than that, we’re heading where he doesn’t want you to follow.”

“What does that mean? Shouldn’t this be my choice?”

He was slow to answer. He seemed to have shrunk a little, looking sad and guilty.

“It’s for the best,” he said. “When he wakes he’ll say it better than I can. It’s better like this.”

“Justice, you wouldn’t lie to me, will you?”

“I don’t lie,” he agreed.

“What’s happening? Who was coming to the clinic? What’s wrong with Anders? I’ve seen him heal a dozen patients without taking a single potion. This couldn’t have been worse. What aren’t they telling me?”

“A new assault on Mage Underground has began,” he said. “We lost many friends yesterday. Several were taken alive, and gave up more of us under torture. A squad of templars was sent after Anders to the Darktown. He was caught up in that battle, and then had to rescue and heal the traitors, even though all he wanted was to be by your side. Grief and loss sapped his strength more than the effort. He will recover, but--”

“This makes no sense. A new assault, now? The city was overrun by Qunari! There’s public unrest, the Viscount is dead! The templars should be helping the guard, keeping the peace, not combing the sewers for stray mages!”

“The Viscount is dead, yes. We used to have allies who had his ear, we had a spy in the Keep. They couldn’t stop the templar raids on our safehouses, but a warning and a delay was all we needed. Now the city has no government, and the templars are unchallenged. They are seizing their moment.”

“Bloody templars,” she groaned, thumping her fists on the blanket. “They’re done even pretending to serve the public good, have they? All they do is terrorise people and break up families, and murder whoever gets in the way. Did they trash the clinic? Everything he scraped together over the years, did they destroy it all? I can’t believe this. The city is a mess, even my dog is out on the streets, doing her part, and they--”

“Don’t,” he said, and the glow around him flickered like a candle. “Please, Hawke, you need to calm down.”

He slumped forward, rubbing his temples, and then he was just Anders again.

“I wish he wouldn’t do this,” he hissed under his breath.

“He does this often, then?”

“I need to check your dressings,” Anders said instead of replying. “May I?”

She pushed her blanket aside and had a sudden, violent dizzy spell at the sight of a fresh bloody spot quickly spreading over her nightshirt.

“I had to leave your wound open to drain,” he said and produced a basket full of clean rolled bandages. “I would have thought it went without saying that you weren’t to move, tense up or yell.”

She pouted and fixed her eyes on the ceiling. He rolled up her nightshirt, covered her legs and groin with a clean sheet, armed himself with scissors and began cutting her bloody dressings away from her skin.

“You’re doing great, Hawke,” he said once all the soaked gauze was gone. “Just a short session for now, to make sure there’s no chance of infection, and tomorrow I’ll start closing it.”

He set his fingers near the open wound and began the spell. It tingled a little, and took her an effort to relax into it. Once he was done he applied fresh poultice and covered it with clean bandages, and then uncertainly plucked at her stained nightshirt.

“Clean ones are in the wardrobe,” she pointed. He went to rummage there and came back with the freshly laundered shirt, and helped her change, skittishly averting his eyes the whole time.

“Do you need the bed pan?” he asked.

“No,” she said, cringing in embarrassment. This wasn’t how she’d imagined being touched and undressed by him.

“You should by now, you need to drink more,” he said and held the cup to her lips. She reluctantly swallowed a tepid mouthful and shook her head.

“So, can we talk now?” she asked when he eased her back onto the pillows.

“We might as well,” he said and perched on the edge of the bed. “That… fling we were going to have.”

“Anders, that’s not--”

“Love, please, just let me say it.”

He folded his hands in his lap and stared down at his fingers.

“I can’t be with you,” he said. “All I ever wanted was to be a friend to you, as good a friend as I can be, to replay every kindness you’ve shown me. To wish for more was a momentary madness, an indulgence. There was a time I’d have loved to be your toy for a day, but now… I’m not that man anymore. It would hurt too much. I’m sorry, please don’t ask this of me.”

“I never said--”

“I didn’t realise you wanted children. I shouldn’t have assumed, I know, it’s my fault. You’re young, healthy, free, you have your whole life ahead of you, of course you want to.”

“I haven’t thought about it until now, actually. I always assumed it would be Bethany. We’d find a safe place, she’d fall in love with someone we could trust... Or maybe it would have been Carver’s future wife, that strange, saintly woman. Honestly, I was looking forward to meeting the one who’d fall for him. But, no. My siblings won’t give me those new little Hawkes. It’s just me. Did the healing work?”

“I think so. Don’t wait any longer, though, you’re almost thirty. You can start trying in a couple of months. But, I’m sure you understand. It can’t be with me.”

“Because of the Taint?” she guessed.

“Yes. And, even if a miracle was to happen, because of the Calling, and everything else that’s ahead. I can’t father a child only to abandon them. You should consider someone else. Fenris--”

“For the last time, would you stop? He has nothing to do with--” she snapped, and regretted it instantly when the tearing pain flared again. She didn’t even have the breath to finish her tirade.

He put his hands over her bandages and soothed her with another spell.

“I just wanted to say I was wrong about him,” he said. “Even I can see, you’re more dear than life to him. He does love you. But, yes, it’s not about him, it’s not even about the future I want you to have. Hawke… When I saw you on that sword, when I thought I might not save you… I felt like I was coming undone. I couldn’t see how I’d survive if you died. And I can’t afford to be like that. My life isn’t my own anymore, I have work to do.”

“Yes, that,” she said. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. The Mage Underground. Really not the time discuss romance, while you’re grieving for your friends and I have a hole in my gut.”

“Oh, Andraste’s tits,” he moaned and buried his face in his hands. “You meant… I made an ass of myself, didn’t I?”

“Let’s pretend we didn’t and try this again in a week,” she said, and held her hand up as he drew breath to argue. “No, hush, don’t make me use my important voice, it hurts to tense my diaphragm. Pressing matters first. What happened, exactly? Is the rest of the Underground safe enough, with the templars on the prowl? How can I help? If you need money, or a new safehouse, or if you need me to lean on Aveline--”

“I don’t want you to worry about that while you’re healing. I don’t want you involved at all! Who told you about it? Was it Fenris?”

“Oh, for Maker’s sake! You did! Justice! Can’t you remember? I thought you shared memories!”

“Not… always,” he muttered. “Sometimes he writes me notes, I should look for them. Hawke, please. Stay out of this. At least give me that, let me know you’re safe.”

“Don’t I deserve to know you’re safe?”

“Hawke…”

“I’m really tired,” she admitted. She was shaking a little, wrung out, all her limbs leaden and cold. The sun has finally risen, and the bright morning light hurt her eyes and cast deep shadows on Anders’ gaunt, exhausted face. “Just let me say this, don’t interrupt. When I came to see you in the clinic, I brought you a present.”

“The pie, yes, sorry, I gave it to—-”

“No, shh. A different present. I forgot all about it when we kissed. I put it on the mantelpiece when I came home, I was going to give it to you in the morning. It’s right there. Take it.”

“Is it a red ribbon?” he asked, scrunching up his nose in distaste.

“No. Take it.”

He gave her another doubtful look, walked over to the empty fireplace and ran his fingers over the shelf. She held her breath, waiting, and she heard the exact moment his fingers bumped into metal and the key scraped against the wood. Anders picked it up and held out to her in a silent question.

“It’s the key to the tunnel from my cellars to the Darktown,” she said. “I don’t want you to sleep down there anymore, even less so now. You can be here in no time after you close the clinic for the night. Pick any room, it’s yours, and if you miss supper there will always be food in the pantry. I won’t take no for an answer. I just won’t.”

He clutched the key in his fist, staring at it fixedly.

“I was going to ask you,” he said. “After we’d made love, if you’d liked it enough. I was going to ask if I could move in, to live with you. I assumed that was off the table if you… if you didn’t want…”

“I want you to be safe and healthy, I want you to have a home. You don’t need to sleep with me to have that. You don’t even need to like me. Maker knows, most people in this household only just tolerate each other.”

“I… I shouldn’t. Things changed since yesterday.” He turned away from her and pressed the heel of his hand to his eye, as if trying to push back tears. “I’m known to Meredith now, if I wasn’t before. And she’s on a rampage, she’s looking for me. It’s too dangerous for you, and we’re not even…”

“At least stay here while I’m bedridden,” she pressed on. That way she wouldn’t have to worry he’d get in trouble when she couldn’t rush to his rescue. “I need my healer, don’t I?”

“I need to go,” he said. “I need a moment, I’ll be just outside, call me if you need me.”

“Bring my dog back!” she called after him, and the moment later he slammed the door behind him, and she was alone.

She waited for him for a while, and then succumbed to fatigue and the lure of a nap.

 

She woke up still tired, to bright daylight and customary by now scratching of the quill on her best paper.

“Nurse,” she called, squirming from the soreness around her bladder. “I’m ready for the bed pan. Can’t wait to find out who you are and how awkward this will be.”

“It’s me, your favourite,” said Varric. “And not at all, what are friends for.”

He was by her side instantly, lifting and moving her in quick, sure motions, as if he was an old hand at that nursing business. Hawke kept her eyes closed, blushing painfully, until he put the bed pan away and covered her up again.

“Bear’s here too,” he said and gestured toward the fireplace. Heavy clawed feet thundered over the floor, Bear’s drooling muzzle rammed into Hawke’s hand and the dog’s broad tongue laved at her fingers.

“Not on the bed, remember how we discussed this,” Varric said, holding Bear back as she whined. He let the mabari settle with her head on the covers, in Hawke’s easy petting reach, and pulled up a chair for himself.

“So, Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall,” he said, grinning broadly. “How does it feel to be a living legend?”

“Sore and itchy, mostly,” she said. “The what of what?”

“Did you forget already? You have a new title. The city recognises and honours you as its hero. You’re revered, the people sing songs about you. Some of them by yours truly, of course. Apparently, there’s going to be a statue!”

“What? When did all this happen?”

“Right after the battle. You’ve repelled the Qunari and saved the city. You’re a Champion, Hawke. My friend, my muse, do you understand what a big fucking deal this is? Free Marches don’t give this honour out lightly. You have your place in history now. And did I mention the statue?”

“Bet they won’t get my ass right,” she said. “What does that all entail, exactly? Is there a stipend? Do I have to go to meetings? Can I resign?”

“No, you can’t resign from being an inspiration, a hero and the Kirkwall’s darling. Don’t be a bore, Hawke, you’ll love this. You don’t need a stipend, from now on you drink for free in this city. And, well, you don’t have any official duties, but--”

“Ooh,” she drawled, finally catching on. “I’m a big fucking deal! I can milk that.”

“Exactly!”

“Is there a new Viscount yet? Can you get me an audience? They’ll agree to visit the wounded hero in her lovely home, right?”

“I’m sure they would, but no. There isn’t one.”

“How do you get them? Is there a Landsmeet?”

“Sort of, the nobles assembly. There will be one soon, to approve the budget for rebuilding after the riot. They could elect the Viscount, if anyone makes their bid.”

“I should be there,” Hawke said. “I’m a noble, and a Champion, let them try stop me. If they hold it before I’m back on my feet, you should be there. I’ll give you a writ, so you can vote in my stead and start schmoozing the new ruler right away. Would you do that?”

“Gladly, but, Hawke, listen. There won’t be a new Viscount. Nobody wants the job.”

“Why not? Sounds like a cushy appointment.”

“Yeah, have I told you what happened to the last guy? Well, short story, Meredith Stannard happened. And now this one loses his head too, and she hovers around his empty chair with a very particular look on her face. She doesn’t want a new Viscount.”

“How is that up to her?”

“Well, who’s to oppose her? Everyone is too scared. No, look, that’s not bad for business. Now the bean counters aren’t as worried that someone would check their records. We can get our taxes squared for half the usual bribe.”

“How about we think bigger?” she offered. “Don’t you think you’d make a fine Viscount?”

“A dwarf, trying to rule Kirkwall? Sure, for a couple of days, until they find my body in five ditches at once. Don’t even joke like that.”

“What if I make the bid? The Champion and a Viscount, how does that sound?”

“Meredith would block you,” he said confidently. “She has you right where she wants you now. In public eye, so she knows you’re not up to anything, and just far away from power so you’re not underfoot.”

“Hang on,” said Hawke, petting Bear with more force to focus despite the pain. “Does she have something to do with all this Champion business?”

“Well, yes, that was part of her play. People have the Champion to protect them and solve all their problems, yet you can’t pass any decrees or impose any new taxes. So much better than a Viscount, who needs one? Look, she was going to do something about you one way or another. It could have been much worse.”

“Why, how does she even know who I am?”

“Are you kidding me? Do you remember someone called Petrice? Or one Ser Alric?”

“Hey, nothing was ever proven…”

“No, but she knew you were a wild card. So she moved you up in the world. Now you’re a known entity. Hawke, don’t pout, this is a good thing.”

“Right, well, forget the Viscount then. We’ll address the assembly. While the city was on fire, Meredith was busy sending out raids on Mage Underground safehouses. We’ll get solid proof and expose her, and--”

“Hawke,” he said softly. “Everyone knows. Why would she hide that? It’s a proud achievement. Not having a Viscount to slow her down helped her clean up the streets, that’s just another string to her bow. She’s keeping the city safe.”

“But,” she moaned, losing the thread of conversation, woozy and weak. “You can’t keep people safe by murdering and torturing them. There weren’t just mages. Most of them weren’t, I think. And even the mages - they should have been taken to the Gallows, nobody should have been killed. Nobody should have been tortured. I know they did it to the Dalish, I know that, but not in the city. Not like this. If we tell the truth…”

“She has a point, though,” Varric said. “We do have a mage problem here. Wouldn’t you rather a certain blood mage named Quentin have been killed in a raid a few years before he laid his eyes on your mother?”

“Don’t,” Hawke whispered.

“Sorry. That was shitty, I know.”

“Who else should have been killed in a raid years ago, just in case? My sister? My dad, before I was even born? Nobody should be punished before the crime. That’s not justice.”

“Hm. Anders really got to you, didn’t he?”

“Who got to you? It used to be Sunshine, Blondie, Daisy. And now it’s a ‘mage problem’.”

“Look, Hawke, I love you to bits, you know that. But is that whole mage thing really a hill you want to die on?”

“That’s the hill I was born on, so - ugh, I don’t know anything about dwarven warfare. How do hills figure into anything?”

He laughed and leaned closer to pet Bear along with her. The dog was wagging her stub of a tail so hard the whole bed rhythmically vibrated under them.

“Fine. I’m with you, whatever it is you want to do. Can’t wait to see what the next plot twist will be. So what happened with Anders? He says you broke up, even though I don’t think you were together. And now he’s moving in.”

“That’s about right.”

“And how does Fenris fit into that?”

“He doesn’t.”

“Come on, Hawke, give me more. Otherwise I’ll just make it up. All right, I’m going to tell you a secret. Remember those stories I was writing about you? Well, I’m going to rework those into a novel. Now that you’re a celebrity this will be a sure hit. I have the title already: The Tale of the Champion.”

He went back to the desk and returned with a stack of papers covered in his neat handwriting.

“Got the first few chapters roughed out while you slept. There’s a lot of bullshit here, of course, you can’t achieve proper narrative flow without it, but I think I got the heart of it right. I just…”

He made a broad gesture, and as he held a pause she realised he was speechless, casting around for the right words, for the first time in all the years she’d known him.

“I just want people to know you, because you’re great,” he said. “And I want my fame and fortune, of course.”

“Shit,” she said, a little misty-eyed. “Well, I’m touched, all right. Are you going to give me a grand romance?”

“That’s what I’m trying to research here! It’s pretty dramatic so far, actually. The Tale of the Champion: rejected by a sewer man, dumped by an elf, she saves the city that broke her heart. How’s that for the cover tagline?”

“Great,” Hawke said. “Once that hits the shelves I’ll get laid for sure. You forgot to mention yourself and Isabela among my failed conquests, let’s make my humiliation complete.”

“All right, I’ll make something up instead. How about a prince? Blue eyes, shining armour, tragic back story?”

“As long as he’s not boring.”

“Tragic and slutty back story,” he amended and made a note on an empty page.

“And make my tits bigger,” she demanded.

“Way ahead of you on that. Want to hear the first chapter?”

She nodded and settled down to listen, snuggling Bear’s head with one arm.

“Hawke led her family through the mountain pass, toward what she hoped was safety. The path was hard and steep, but at the very least, they walked it unburdened. They had little choice in that: there hadn’t been time to gather supplies for the journey, and all their belongings had been left behind. Below, in the valley they’d narrowly escaped before the darkspawn swarmed in, the town of Lothering was burning.”

Hawke sighed, suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of bitter-sweet nostalgia, and gave him an approving nod.

“Hawke reached the summit and stopped to let the others rest. Her large, pert breasts strained against the leather of her armour as she stretched her tired back. Her sister Bethany caught up with her first, leaning on their late father’s staff. Bethany’s low-cut blouse exposed her heaving, heavy--”

“I have some critical remarks already.”

“This is only the first draft - you know what, you’re right.” He made a note in the margin. “I’ll whip your tits out when they’re relevant to the plot.”

“And cover my sister up, she’s barely eighteen at that point. Put a scarf over that blouse or something.”

“Fine, fine. Their mother, Leandra, still a rare beauty despite her age, struggled to keep up with her daughters. Carver, Bethany’s younger twin, brought up the rear. Both he and Hawke were fresh from the slaughter at Ostagar, the bloodiest battle of the Fifth Blight yet…”

Hawke scratched Bear’s ear, listened to her own story, transformed and uplifted by a consummate liar’s rich imagination, and healed, bit by bit, breath by breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of part 1 (of 4)! This part was codenamed "Wet in Hightown". Next part is called "Championship", as in, "the vigorous support or defense of a person or cause."
> 
> Thank you, lovely people, for the kudos, and my eternal love for the comments, and of course, thank you for reading!


	17. PART 2: CHAMPIONSHIP

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interlude: Hawke gets mail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some messages sent to Hawke in the days following the Arishok duel.

Hawke

I see you daily, perhaps more than I used to before your ingury, yet I find myself constantly bereft of your company. I wonder if your forced repose leves you bored and restless. You seem always glad to have a visitor.

Consider: this note will convey you my thoughts, speak my voice into your mind whenever you read it. A part of me always with you, the moment I write this preserved in time, my thoughts locked on the idea of your face. Even though there’s only few streets between us and half a day before my next visit, it wouldn’t matter if there were leages and years. Whenever you wish I was there to provide a distraction, I am.

Laugh if you like at the novice’s wonder and enthiusasm for letters, whatever puts a smile on your face is a good thing. But mind your stitches. I will see you soon.

Fenris

 

Dearest Cousin Hawke,

It’s so odd and wonderful to write this: my cousin. I’m a cousin, I have a cousin. My parents and siblings are long gone or Tranquil, and I have no memory of any of them. I’d never considered there could be more of us out there. Now there’s you, and Bethany, and Uncle Gamlen, and I’m lost for words.

I wish you’d written to me sooner, when I could have helped you through the Blight’s misfortunes. But it seems by the time I became an arless, with means and money to aid you, you were no longer a starving refugee either. How strange is it that you’re the Champion of my hometown, the place I can’t even recall, and I’ve been honoured by the land of your birth?

Though I am Fereldan now, Cousin, through and through. I’ve bled buckets into this brown dirt, I have a mabari, I bedded the King, I love this land like I’ve not loved anything before, and it’s been kind to me in return. It might please you to know the King is working to give Kinloch Hold its independence. It’s slow going - some say it’ll never happen while Orlais stands - but I believe in him. He’s a good man.

No such luck with the Gallows, but I want you to know that Bethany has a choice. It’s not an easy one. When I first took my command I wanted to run straight to the nearest tower and conscript every willing mage. But being a Warden isn’t for everyone. Even though I was, at one point, one of the two last surviving Grey Wardens in Ferelden, I keep forgetting how brutal and ugly this life can be. I had conscripted one fellow Kinloch Hold alumni, and, suffice to say I mourn him daily. Still, confer with Bethany, send me a word, and a Warden will set off for Kirkwall, ready to invoke the Right of Conscription.

Don’t dismiss the idea lightly, Cousin. The Circles aren’t safe places for mages, as Chantry would have you believe. Did you know that Kinloch Hold had nearly been annulled, just because a few abominations broke loose? Myself, my dog, a nun and the King of Ferelden had cleaned the place up in time for supper while the templars cowered outside, but had we not been there, hundreds would have died.

And abominations are the least of it.

Besides, Kirkwall is so very far from Amaranthine. A recruit might get lost on their way, if they prefer.

Please, write more, tell me all there is to know about you. Thank you for this gift. It means the world to know I have a family.

Your cousin

Warden-Commander Amell.

 

Messere Hawke,

The revised house rules are ready for your approval. Further to your concerns, yes, these might seem patronising, but a contract is the basis of all civilisation. If we don’t respect each other boundaries we’re no better than darkspawn! In my humble opinion, my written memorandums have greatly helped messere Gamlen integrate into the household.

Amell mansion rules:

\- No spitting.

\- Every race must be respected, including Qunari (excluding darkspawn).

\- All doors and windows must be bolted from inside overnight. It’s only common sense. ADDED: the cellar doors must never be bolted or obstructed.

\- No drinking in the common areas before sundown.

\- No shouting anywhere in the house after sundown. Exception: parties held by the head of the household.

\- No sleeping on the floor in the common areas.

\- Please promptly report any bodily fluids accidents to the staff.

\- No liquid to be introduced into the planters except pure water.

\- No drawing on the walls or the railings.

\- The dog is fed by messere Hawke alone, or by Bodahn Feddic in her absence, only at set times and from approved food list. Feeding of the dog by anyone else is expressly forbidden.

\- Top shelf of the pantry is off-limits to all but the cook. It only contains provisions for the next meal. There are no secret delicacies or “good stuff” there.

ADDED:

\- No potion ingredients in the kitchen.

\- No bloody garments or bandages on the floors or in general laundry baskets. Please use the special bloody basket (the blue one)

\- No sleeping at the writing desks in the parlour or the library. Everyone has a perfectly good bed. It startles Sandal and Orana to find sleeping people where they shouldn’t be.

\- No milk saucers in the cellar. They attract roaches and will upset the dog’s stomach if she finds them.

Allow me to say I’m delighted to have messere Anders with us! My boy likes him so, and I’m sure we’ll all get along wonderfully once small adjustments are made.

Bodahn Feddic

 

My Champion,

Enclosed are this month’s accounts. Nothing needs doing, all running smoothly, just making sure you’re getting the papers on time. Business as usual even when our guts are held together by threads, right? Profits are a little down, but what do you do, Qunari ripping the place up was a bit of an overhead expense.

Also copied a few pages from the next chapter for you. I skipped ahead a bit, to where you meet Asha’bellanar, because I need you to confirm the others aren’t shitting me about that hairdo and the outfit. Almost wish I’d come to Sundermount with you to meet her! Almost. Don’t take this as a hint to invite me on your future out-of-town adventures, I’m not going. Your love for the great outdoors is frankly baffling. If I wanted to get bitten, step in something foul or pick up a weird rash - actually, I don’t need to leave the Hanged Man for any of that, and here at least I’m warm and dry.

How bored are you today? Should I come over? I’ll come over. I ordered some new books for you, expecting delivery any day now: Drakestone and Dragonblood, Wings of Blood, and Sea on Fire. Utter trash, but you have no taste, you’ll love them.

Going to bring some more berserker drops for the pain, I don’t care what you say, you sound like it still hurts.

V. Tethras

 

Dear Sister,

Hope you’re all right! I wake up every day scared you’ve taken a turn for the worse. I know, I said a lot of profound stuff, but you’re right. There’s just the two of us now, and it’s so scary. I can’t lose you. Please be more careful from now on? Please try? Even though they gave you that stupid title, could you please not take it as an encouragement to wrestle dragons and eat sling pellets for breakfast?

Can’t get permission to see you, not even with templar escort. But I’ll be allowed a visitor next week, could you please send Aveline? For the love of Andraste, do NOT try to get out of bed yourself. I just want her to tell me if you look well.

I keep thinking, if only I’d been there. You’ve seen me, I’m on a whole new level now, a real Force mage, just like Dad was. I’d have smacked that Qunari with the Fist of the Maker all the way out of the Keep and into the sea and you wouldn’t have to try to stab him with your little knife while he cleaved you in two with a blade twice your height. Honestly, sis. You’re the one who told me to pick my battles. Well, you told that to Carver, but I was there. That battle was not for you! You were a terrible match for him! Still, I guess there’s no point trying to tell a Hawke what to do. And of course you won, so you wouldn’t listen anyway!

I’ll be allowed another letter next month. It’ll be long, I promise. Right now I just want to chew you out for getting hurt and can’t think of anything else to say. Everything here is as usual. We lost a lot of people in that attack, so there’s a lot of grief. But I’m fine, as long as you are.

First Enchanter Orsino came to talk to me about how impressed he was with you. So now I’m the First Enchanter’s pet, too. Thank you!

(Isn’t he a bit handsome???)

Love you. Always, forever, you’re my sister and I’m so proud of you.

Bethany Hawke

P.S. My senior enchanter said she has to ban this letter unless I make it clear that I don’t advocate or plan violent use of magic without Chantry sanction. I don’t!!! I would have smacked that Qunari very softly in service of man and defence of the city.

 

Hawke

Have you read Shartan’s book all the way through? I just finished it, and I must discus it with you. My mind feels as full as a gluton after a feast, as if I might burst. I’m writing my thoughts down, but the process is frustratinly slow.

I hope you feel better today. I’ll see you at the usual time.

Fenris

 

Hawke

A thought: if you’ve not read the book and feel too fatiged to wresle with it now, I could read it to you. It would be a good practice for me, and I’m already eager to revisit every word.

After the battle of Valerian Fields Andraste named Shartan her Champion. His story is a fine inspiration if you still feel bafled by your new title, as you said the other day. And you will enjoy that the book ends well before the pire.

I’ll bring the tome with me. It will entertain or put you to sleep, and either would aid your recovery.

Fenris

 

Hawke,

I’ll drop by later but want to make sure you have these when you wake up. With your new title comes this honour, the Champion’s Regalia, a set of armour commissioned by the nobles’ assembly from Kirkwall’s finest artisans. This is the city’s gift to you, a mark of their gratitude and reverence. You might choose to wear it or display it in your home, both options would be appropriately dignified way to accept the offering and all it entails.

You might have noticed this is only the gloves. Meredith looked me straight in the eye and told me the helm and the boots were stolen by blood mages, and the chest piece was eaten by a dragon. I honestly can’t tell if she’s gone insane or if she’s laughing in my face because she thinks herself my superior. My confusion is the reason I haven’t punched her yet.

Still, I think they’re pretty nice gloves, your favourite colour.

Donnic sends his love. I’ll see you soon. Be strong, get well.

Aveline Hendyr, Guard Captain

 

Dear Hawke,

I’m called away to a critical patient, might not return until tomorrow. Please don’t try to get up. Take the medicine on your bedside table as usual and don’t let the dog climb on the bed. Orana will see to your dressings like we practised and will feed you exactly what and as much as you should be eating, and help you with the bed pan.

I’m sorry I’ve not had a chance to say goodbye, but you need your sleep, I couldn’t justify waking you. I’ll see you very soon.

Thank you again for inviting me to stay in your home. It has been a blessing to be near you while you heal.

It has been a blessing to know you and to have your friendship. Too many things I have left unsaid, and when I thought I might lose you, I regretted ever holding back. So here it is: I smile with joy whenever I think of you. You’re my strength and my solace, and will always be. I wish you every happiness, whatever form you want it to take.

I hope you have a pleasant day. Rest, sleep, drink plenty of water, no sitting up, no laughing, no alcohol, no smuggled food, no staying awake late, that’s when your fever spikes. I should just say no Varric and no Isabela, shouldn’t I? Bodahn has the address where I’ll be, he can send for me if your condition changes and you need me.

Please don’t hesitate to send for me. Even if you think the worry is minor it might not be. If I can’t leave my patient, I might be able to give instruction to Bodahn on what to do.

I’m certain you’ll be fine. My thoughts are with you, as always.

A.

 

Aneth Ara Lethallan

I hope it’s a fine morning for you and the pain is less! Me and Isabela plan to visit you before supper. Do you want some of those sweets Anders doesn’t let you eat? It will have to be just a little! We don’t want to make you sick, only to cheer you up!

Mythal Enansal

Merrill Sabrae

 

Hawke

I couldn’t sleep so I’m writing you another letter. I know you won’t read it until the morning. But what if you’re sleeples too, confined to your bed, sick and in pain, alone with your thoughts? I’m leaving my doors open. If you want to send Bear to fetch me, any time, night or day, I’m here and yours.

Fenris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought it would be realistic for Fenris not to have perfect spelling yet. I have no idea if Thedas even has dictionaries and standard spelling and grammar by this point, I think it's important to the devs that the canon is vague on where sciences and technologies are at. For example, how does Kirkwall postal service even work? I suppose there are plenty of people in Lowtown and Darktown who would hand-deliver a letter for a copper or two. Templar recruits or the Tranquil might carry sanctioned mage letters from the Gallows. Fenris probably personally walks to Amell mansion to drop his letters off, it’s only around a corner. Or maybe for a fee you could use the messenger services of the Merchant’s Guild?
> 
> Next up: three years later.


	18. Aid and Shelter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three years later: Hawke does Champion things. Fenris redecorates. Anders takes a nap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set early in Act 2, during On The Loose.
> 
> This long-ass chapter is supposed to mirror Chapter 3, the after-time-skip after the 1st act. I’ve outsmarted myself with the structure of this fic but no matter, I love all these nerds and I love writing about them.

Hawke crossed her arms on her chest, over the many oiled, creaking belts of her new armour, and heaved a long dramatic sigh.

“Three escaped mages? Ser Stannard, I’m the Champion of Kirkwall. I don’t get out of bed for less than a high dragon.”

“Even one mage, if they were to fall to a demon, could wreak unimaginable havoc in the city,” said Meredith. “As Kirkwall’s protector, you — I’m sorry, what are you wearing and what is this smell?”

“It’s my Champion’s Regalia, is it not?” Hawke lifted her arms and did a little twirl. “Dug it out of a dragon’s stomach, just where you said it would be. Do you think it needs another wash? Really, how did my gift armour end up in a dragon, would you happen know anything about that?”

Meredith clenched her perfect jaw, slowly shook her head and gave a little rub to her temple under her Andrastian circlet.

“Any templar squad can easily round up a few strays,” Hawke said. “It’s their whole purpose. If any private citizen such as myself was equipped to hunt mages, would we even need The Templar Order?”

“Are you saying it’s too easy or too hard for you?”

“It’s not exactly what I do. Have you considered my proposal to help you with the Mage Underground problem?”

Fenris shifted slightly on his feet. He stood by Hawke’s right side, as always, just far enough so he’d have room to draw his sword. Not that they expected a rumble in the middle of the Gallows, in Knight-Commander’s private study, but it always paid off to maintain good combat habits.

He was there to warn her if she was about to cross a line and ruin her standing with Meredith, such as it was. He was the only one she could rely on in that regard. Aveline, for all her whole-hearted commitment to law and order, went white with fury in Meredith’s presence, and could barely speak herself. Hawke always brought her along to these meetings, at Aveline’s own insistence, to keep the Kirkwall guard in the loop. Aveline was supposed to be Meredith’s opposite, of roughly the same rank, one of them answering to Viscount and another to the Chantry. That hadn’t been exactly the case for the last few years, though.

Varric had also tagged along, but Hawke couldn’t count on him to reel her in. Varric’s book had caught up to current events, and he’d been enthusiastically novelising her life as it was happening. Any conflict and drama were narrative gold to him.

Hawke had thought his book would end on him deciding to write it, right after the Arishok duel. But, as he’d said, that would be the Tale of a Drunk and Horny Fereldan Refugee Before She Becomes the Champion, which was a title with much less bestseller potential.

Hawke didn’t think she’d be clapped in irons if she annoyed Meredith too much, but she could be shut out of the templars’ current and future plans. She’d rather not have it come to that.

She glanced over at Fenris, but he wasn’t giving her an eye, wasn’t trying to step closer to dig his sharp elbow into her side like he’d done on such occasions before.

“I have, yes,” said Meredith.

There was a long pause while Hawke smiled pleasantly and blinked, and Meredith held her pinned with her steely, pretty eyes.

“See, that’s what I do,” Hawke said. “Working with the community that loves me and trusts me. Gathering clues, unravelling mysteries, getting to the bottom of things. Facing down a small army, if need be. The Underground isn’t just mages, you know that, you’ve already captured enough of them. It’s the common people of Kirkwall, my people. I can get them to talk, to cooperate, hopefully even to walk away from that dangerous ring. Sect. Organisation.”

“Net,” muttered Varric behind her. Hawke could only hope he didn’t have his notebook out.

“I could be a great asset. A gentle, friendly approach would save lives and generate good will, and move the investigations along. I just don’t understand why you wouldn’t bring me in on your operations.”

“That would be because I’m not an idiot, Champion.”

Hawke dug her fingers into the leather of her armour and swallowed all the sarcastic remarks dancing on her tongue.

“Of course not,” she said instead. “I’m just saying, if you consider--”

“Oh, must I elaborate? Did you think I don’t know of your past crimes? Letting the Starkhaven mages run amok around the countryside for weeks? The disappearance, probably murder of some of my best men? Did you think I don’t know you harbour an apostate in your very home?”

“Oh, there we go, now I know it’s all a misunderstanding. See, that man--”

“That man has direct ties to the Mage Underground,” Meredith said, enunciating perfectly, showing all her teeth in an unpleasant sneer. “He might very well be one of the ringleaders. And you have the gall to demand to join the hunt for him while you give him succour.”

“I don’t,” Hawke said. “I won’t lie, I’d love to give him a good succour, but we’re just friends.”

Aveline groaned with genuine pain in her voice, Fenris gave a loud, inelegant snort, and Varric chuckled. Hawke stuck out her hand, palm up, and he slapped it soundly.

“It means--” Meredith began.

“Yeah, we all know what it means. You think I have some sort of evil mage king hidden under my bed? Come on then, raid my house.”

Fenris pointedly coughed into his fist, but Hawke was off already. She couldn’t stop now.

“Raid my house. Join the ranks of all the idiots - yeah, I said it - who tried before. Maybe that’s what the Hightown needs to see how much unchecked power we gave you. Maybe then they’ll pull their fingers out of their asses and install the new Viscount.”

“Maybe it’s best if we leave,” Fenris said. Meredith didn’t spare him a single glance, as if she’s not heard him at all. That was one thing the elves had going for them in the Free Marches: they were, in most situations, practically invisible. As a rogue, Hawke saw a value in that.

“I didn’t call you here to antagonise you, Champion,” Meredith said with sudden, inexplicable warmth. Hawke blinked, watching her face light up from a little, barely-there smile. Charismatic - that’s what people said about her. Recently Hawke took to subtly wheedling drunk templars for information, both in the Hanged Man and the Rose, and that word kept coming up. Charismatic, always had been the one in charge, even under the old Knight-Commander. “I know how many good people, good Andrastians, have sheltered a healer in their homes. It can seem that the end justifies the means, especially with your family history. Surely a mage is just a person, someone’s son, brother. Surely a healer is harmless. If he saves lives, he must be trustworthy. Too few of these stories end well.”

She sat on the edge of her desk, still holding that secret, sad, compassionate smile. Hawke’s eyes helplessly slid down, following the stark lines of the silverite armour. Not for the first time she wondered, with a deeply shameful thrill, how might these meetings have gone over the years if she’d come alone.

“That’s why I want you to find those mages,” Meredith said. “Not all are like your sister, or even like that… friend of yours. Meet those people. Talk to them, see their fear and confusion, see how ill equipped they are to be on their own. See how near the edge they are, always. I pray to Andraste you won’t see the ugliest of it, but you’ve faced a Qunari general, you can handle it. See an abomination, if it comes to that. Look at it, learn. Once you understand why I do what I do, we’ll speak again. Once you saw the truth and they’re no longer pulling your strings and using your good heart for their twisted goals… Then we’ll work together.”

That was Hawke’s cue to accept the task, bow and leave. This had gone as well as it could have. It was unreasonable to hope for more.

“In all honestly,” Hawke said, squaring her shoulders. “It sickens me to hunt them. I do see my sister in every mage. I don’t want to learn how rotten her kind is by their very nature. I don’t believe that to be true. So, no. I won’t do it. Send your templars, have them do their jobs.”

“If the Champion is reluctant, it’s understandable. The guards can lend a hand,” Aveline said. Meredith didn’t ignore her they way she did with Fenris. She made a show of turning to Aveline and regarding her amusedly, like a strange woodland flower.

“I wish you’d helped me, really,” Meredith said after she finished staring Aveline down. “I want us to be friends, Champion. I broke a lot of rules and took a lot of chances to spare your sister from punishment after her escape.”

“Her kidnapping, you mean,” Hawke said. She’d expected that, but the anticipation didn’t stop a disgusting chill of fear tearing up her back. “She was kidnapped by the Carta. Despite your security, despite your claims that this is a safe place for the mages. And then, after I rescued her, she returned here voluntarily.”

“You say that, but nobody really believes it, I’m afraid,” Meredith said with a disarming shrug.

“I can provide a dozen witnesses,” Varric said. “Carta people, ready to testify they’d kidnapped the Hawke girl on the orders from their lieutenant. Who is sadly diseased. Can have them here by sundown.”

“I appreciate your willingness to help, messere Tethras,” Meredith said. Hawke turned around to see how Varric reacted to her suddenly knowing his name, but he seemed completely unperturbed, as if the two of them were old pals. Of course - the Merchants’ Guild were Meredith’s powerbase, the absence of a working government had been in their favour so far. “But not everyone here would take such evidence as genuine. Please, Champion. Don’t make me regret giving her my support.”

She was still smiling at Hawke, just as pretty and flawless as any statue of Andraste, just as powerful and righteous, and Hawke felt tiny, the way she’d always felt in the Chantry, kneeling and bowing before cold stone.

“She loves it here,” Hawke said.

“I know,” Meredith said softly.

“She wanted to come back. She didn’t want to run away with me, she wants to live here.”

“I know.”

“Don’t,” Hawke said, clenching her fists inside her gloves until the seams strained and the metal plates bit into her hands. “Don’t make me regret letting her.”

She walked out then, with a flounce and without a goodbye, and her friends followed.

They crossed the Gallows courtyard under the sneers of the templars and the stares of the mages who were allowed out for their constitutional. They’d been confined to their sleeping quarters for weeks now. The senior enchanters were still escorted to the apprentices’ dorms daily, to teach, though that seemed to enrage Orsino even more.

“Those classes are a travesty. They expect us to teach all the kids who sleep in the same room the same lessons, whatever the senior enchanter they shove inside can pull together,” he’d said last time they had a chance to talk. “Just so they can say the kids failed the Harrowing despite being taught.”

Good behaviour still merited a weekly stroll in the yard, and there were several mages whispering together by the wall. Hawke let their angry glares wash over, her the way she’d shrugged off slurs and threats their first year in Kirkwall, when she was the filthy refugee, the mangy Fereldan dog. She had enough to deal with right now. She was drenched in sweat and had a pounding tension headache, and she still had to endure a wobbly, slow row boat to the shore. If they saw her as nothing but Meredith’s errand girl now, that was just as well. She didn’t need them to like her.

Once they reached the docks and Aveline headed back to the Keep to brief the rest of the guard, Fenris excused himself too.

“I should straighten up the place before the game,” he said. “Please remind Anders not to be late, I intend to win back my last week’s losses.”

“Straighten up?” Hawke asked. “What, you’re going to reposition your corpses? I don’t think anyone would notice if that dump is slightly askew.”

“I cleaned it up lately,” he said with the same quiet pride she saw whenever he wrote a whole page without any mistakes. “I don’t think you’ve seen it in a while. Drop by if you can, I’d like your opinion on something.”

Hawke and Varric bought tankards of warm sour beer from a dockside tavern and sat at the side of the pier, dangling their feet over the thick layer of rubbish that swayed atop the black water. Isabela was returning from one of her little sojourns today, and Hawke wanted to welcome her back.

Something had been off between them after the Qunari invasion: Isabela had barely spoken to her at first, and then spent years drifting in and out Kirkwall, sometimes disappearing for weeks and months. She wouldn’t tell Hawke what she was up to. Merrill had seemed completely unconcerned, not sad, not angry, not even lonely, still her usual focused self in front of her mirror and mild, kind and blissfully absent-minded whenever she was away from it.

Hawke had tried having both light and earnest talks with Isabela, giving her space, treading lightly. Nothing worked, until one day she  needed an in with the local pirates and had to ask Isabela for a favour.

And that did it: just like that, they were friends again. Whether Isabela saw it as a way to deal with her guilt, or prove her worth once again, or was just relieved that Hawke had cashed in that debt and Isabela no longer owed her - Hawke didn’t care, was just happy to have her back. Isabela still travelled a lot, but now at least some of that was on Hawke’s errands.

“Why is your Wicked Grace night boys only, anyway?” she asked Varric as they watched seagulls fight over a dirty hunk of bread at the end of the pier. “We play together all the time, why do you need to sequester yourselves once a week?”

“To talk about manly things, obviously.”

“Like what?”

“Mostly, to be brutally honest with you, about our feelings. It started because Fenris wanted to give Donnic space to vent, where he could be sure it wouldn’t get back to Aveline.”

“Vent? Donnic? What could he possibly need to get off his chest? They’re married, they’re in love…”

“Well, see, Hawke, when two people love each other very much but didn’t get any experience at that marriage thing until well in their thirties, it takes work to change your ways. Tensions build, tempers snap, things get said.”

“Aveline was married before.”

“I know, to a templar, apparently he got leave to see her almost every other month! By that token I’m as good as married. No, it’s not the same as sharing the bed every day for the rest of your lives.”

“Well,” Hawke said, suddenly feeling the crushing weight of her thirty two years of spinsterhood. “I defer to your judgement. You’re definitely more married than I am. How is the other Bianca?”

They’d finally met last year. The other Bianca had come to Kirkwall on the Guild’s business: to inspect the Lowtown Foundry with a view of installing some new equipment to modernise the operations. How much of that visit she’d managed to spend in Varric’s bed was between them and the Stone, as far as Hawke was concerned, but Varric did invite her to the Hanged Man to meet the fabled temptress, the one who got away.

Bianca turned out to be a surprisingly unremarkable, almost plain woman Varric’s age, dressed in practical brown wool and studded leather, with her hair pinned into a simple flat knot to fit under her hood. There was just a hint of paint on her eyes and lips, thought the rest might have smudged on Varric’s pillow upstairs and she hadn’t bothered putting it on again.

“That’s the famous Hawke, then,” Bianca had said. “Well. You’re a lot less… everything… than I expected.”

Varric must have given her tips on how to win Hawke’s Fereldan heart. Bianca spent the rest of the night telling hilarious stories from her Val Royeaux workshops, mostly about how stupid and awful Orlesians were. Eventually the non-couple had made some weak excuse to ditch her and dash back upstairs, though Hawke couldn’t fathom why they thought excuses were even needed. They both looked like they were starving for some fine dwarven goods; she understood perfectly.

“She’s well,” Varric said. “She might make Paragon after all. House Aeducan finally realised they can’t strengthen Orzammar’s connection to the surface if they keep shitting on the surface dwarves. And now everyone who’s still secretly pulling for Harrowmont are supporting her too, since the old boy put in the word for us.”

“So if that happens, will you--”

“No, I’m pretty sure the families would still insist on her marriage. But at least they’ll be less trigger-happy with the assassins. One hopes. She’ll be free to visit more often, get to know the gang. Be in our lives. It’s a good thought, you know?”

“It is, I’d like that, she’s fun,” Hawke said. “If I can rescue any other deposed princes for you, just point the way.”

“That’s her ship, she’s hear!” Merrill’s voice rang over the water. Her light feet drummed down the pier, and then she was slumped over Hawke’s back in a half-hug, catching her breath. “That’s her!”

A gorgeous Rivaini galleon was slowly pulling into the harbour, most of its sails hitched up into neat folds like a lady’s skirts. Isabela was leaning over the side up top, near the battered wooden mermaid that hung off the ship’s long beak. She waved her scarf like a flag of a country of her own, and her hair billowed freely behind her, longer than before, wing-like.

They had to wait a while for the ship to dock and the first of the cargo barrels to be unloaded, and then Isabela dodged a flock of stevedores and ran ashore down the long gangplank, arms thrown wide as if she was going to hug the whole of Kirkwall.

Merrill dropped her staff and jumped at Isabela, clamped her arms and legs around her and kissed her.

“Hi, Varric, hi, Hawke,” Isabella muttered between the wet sounds they were making, easily holding up Merrill’s slight weight. “Long time, right, kitten? Hawke, it’s all arranged, the boat is sailing at morning tide tomorrow. I’ll introduce you to the captain.”

“I have done the, the thing too,” Merrill mumbled, arching her back under Isabela’s palms.

“Good, thanks,” Hawke said. “Well. I’m going to leave you to it.”

“No, wait,” said Isabela, trying to reach for her blindly. “Don’t leave, let’s all go to the Hanged Man, let’s--”

“Tomorrow,” Hawke said. “I’ll see you tomorrow. You should catch up.”

She walked to Hightown alone, wondering what that choking surge of jealousy was about. She was envious of them, of course. They were about to have days of wild sex and the luxurious pleasure of waking up in each other arms. Hawke still harboured a childish resentment that it was Merrill, not herself, who somehow became Isabela’s anchor, the one constant, the one she’d never push away and never be done with.

But more than anything, she was Hawke. She thought of herself as the heart of their little gang, and now, thanks to Varric, the hero of the story. It irked her whenever she wasn’t the centre of attention, the one everyone hugged first.

Even in her own mansion, bought and run with the fortune she’d bled for, life didn’t revolve around her at all. Gamlen didn’t look up from his copy of Masqued Murmurs Monthly. Bear, the only one who always greeted Hawke home without fail, was busy shamelessly eating a cookie out of Sandal’s hand. The dog gave a guilty whimper under Hawke’s disapproving glare and hurried out of the room.

“Oh no, mistress, are you angry at us?” breathlessly asked Orana. She held a whole plate of those cookies, stacked up in a perfect pyramid.

“I’m not,” Hawke said, careful not to grind her teeth in frustration. “No need for this puppy eyes routine. But I don’t want Bear to get ill. We talked about this.”

“I baked these especially for her! I got the recipe from a mabari breeder in Darktown. These treats are healthy and good. We just want Bear to love us.”

“We love Bear,” Sandal agreed.

Hawke couldn’t blame them. Bear was past her prime, and Hawke often left her behind when a skirmish was likely. Her war hound was a house dog now, and it made sense for her to bond with the household. Hawke couldn’t begrudge these two trying to steal her dog’s affection.

Except apparently she could.

Hawke called Bear back and hugged her, trying not to notice all those new grey patches on her muzzle, and assured Bear that she was a good dog, the best one, she deserved all the cookies, it was all right.

Bodahn came downstairs from the study, gave Hawke a long anguished look and stomped out of the room.

“Oh, what now,” Hawke sighed.

“Your apostate is asleep at the desk again, I guess,” Gamlen said. “At least Bodahn doesn’t try to wake the poor lad up anymore.”

The first time Bodahn attempted to rouse Anders he’d nearly received a Justice smite in his face, and Hawke had spent the better part of the day smoothing that out. Now it was just this, silent glares and pursed lips. And, of course, today there was an extra reason for Bodhan to be offended and nervous.

Hawke walked up the stairs to the library, and, yes, there he was: sprawled on the desk with his head on the unfinished page, his coat still on, as if he could never get warm enough.

There was a small puddle of ink under his palm where the quill had slipped out of his hand. She touched his wrist, trying to wake him gently, and his fingers twitched and smeared the ink around. He’d been frowning, his lips still pressed angrily together even in his sleep. She leaned over, inhaled his scent and kissed his hair, that miserable crease on his forehead, the high point of his cheekbone, the edge of stubble at his jaw. 

He stirred and opened his eyes. The table under his face seemed to startle him. He pushed out with his hands and sat up, staring at the smeared page in bleary confusion. The lines he’d managed to put down bled some ink onto his face and left a fetching tattoo on his cheek. She reached to rub it off, and he caught her hand and pressed a soft, sleepy kiss to the base of her thumb. His eyes found her face, and he slid a hand up her arm, leaned closer and kissed her on the mouth.

She drank it in: the feel of his lips, the taste of him, a little sour from sleep. Their tongues slid together and she shuddered with pleasure, and he winced too and pulled away.

“Sorry,” he said. “I was dreaming of you. It - sorry.”

“It’s fine,” she said. “You know it’s fine.”

They’d kissed a few times over the last three years. Living together, even without sharing a bed, had forged an odd physical familiarity between them. In winter they curled up together to read on the couch, their legs tangled up and a single blanket thrown over them both. During summer heatwave they’d shared a hammock in the mansion’s back yard and dozed through the noon in the sparse shade, soothed by the sea breeze. She helped him tie his hair in the morning, and he casually healed any of her small ailments without her asking: bruises on her legs from bumping into her own gear chest as she drunkenly stumbled into bed at night, period cramps, back and hip pains that were becoming annoyingly common after trips to Sundermount and the coast, an occasional tax-related headache.

So this happened. They’d fall asleep together and wake up with his cock hard and snug against her backside, and they’d take their time pulling apart. They be laughing together until there were both giddy, and then somehow fall into a kiss, short and hard, as if stolen. She’d find him sat alone in a dark room, biting back tears over yet another disaster: another mage captured or mutilated, another friend murdered, and she’d hold him and kiss his neck and his face until he breathed a little easier, and sometimes he’d kiss her too, for a long, long time, as if it didn’t count as long as there was no light and they could barely see each other’s faces. But that was as far as it ever went.

“How did it go?” he asked.

“Meredith assigned me to look for the naughty mages. I better start making public inquiries tomorrow. How are things here?”

“All good. Well, Bodahn suspects something, so he’s angry at me. I’ve given them all the leftover bread and cheese at dinner, but I told Orana I ate it. I think she bought that. Is it supper time?”

“I’ll take care of that. It’s the boys’ Wicked Grace night, remember? Best stick to routine to avoid suspicion. Come on, I’ll walk you over. No, don’t argue. Meredith threatened you at that meeting. I don’t want her to think I’m not taking her seriously.”

They walked through the Hightown’s soft, quiet afternoon side by side. As they turned toward the Chantry a templar stopped at a corner and gave them a pointed look. Hawke possessively slipped her hand into Anders’ and rubbed her thumb over his palm the rest of the way.

The templar might not be there to ominously shadow her notorious apostate. Anders refused to let her buy him new clothes, so he did stand out in Hightown, and people stared. If he’d just let him dress him up and adorn him with some tasteful jewelry, and treat his hair with some oils to bring back its lustre, if he’d just rested enough to look less haggard and haunted, he’d outshine all of Kirkwall nobles. He was still handsome, but Hawke’s old jokes about his sexy tortured look weren’t so funny anymore. At least, between her and Orana they’d managed to stop him getting any thinner, even if they couldn’t get his old glow back.

He’d had a rough three years when he first came to Kirkwall: grieving Karl, working to build a strong Mage Underground here in Kirkwall, teaching people not to fear mages. He’d put down roots here, made connections. And then, just as the Underground began to do real, good work, it had all ended. For the next three years he’d watched all he’d done here meticulously destroyed, his friends killed one by one, the small sanctum he’d built shrunk down to nothing again. Somehow he pushed through it all, and he kept healing, writing, working. He kept talking to whoever would listen, and to many who wouldn’t, with the same electric passion, trying to persuade, pleading them to care.

She knew he had the Warden stamina to draw on, and Justice’s strength. She didn’t know how much of Anders would be left before Justice would wear him out past any use, like he’d done with his previous host. Anders would let him, she knew. Would keep eagerly offering himself up until the very last dregs.

“Still annoyed that Meredith wouldn’t let me on her Mage Underground investigation team,” Hawke said to drown out her thoughts with chatter. “I’d make an amazing spy, in the best bardic tradition.”

“I’ve heard you sing, and you’re wrong.” He grinned at her, and there was that rare flash of his younger, vibrant self there for a moment. “No, even if we had someone on the inside, it’s too dangerous now. I’m getting the rest of the Underground out of Kirkwall before they’re killed too. I’ll focus on my manifesto for a while. I know I can reach people, I did that here. Three years ago we had dozens of brave souls willing to help the mages. But that’s not the right way. We lost too many and saved too few. And the people we do rescue are all alone in the world that hates them.”

She squeezed his hand, tried to find something reassuring to say, and couldn’t.

They pushed through the doors of Fenris’ mansion and she stopped in the foyer, certain they’d somehow walked into the wrong house.

The musty smell, tinged with the heavy note of corpse rot, was gone, replaced by a whiff of paint. The walls were bright, pristine pale lavender. All the old decor: the paintings, the gaudy idols, the mouldy rags - had disappeared. Instead of heaps of broken furniture and smashed pottery there were only a few benches by the walls and a simple desk, positioned just like Hawke had it in her mansion, to pile the mail on. Broken and missing tiles on the floor had been replaced, and there were no longer any scorch marks on the railings where they’d pinned down that rage demon.

Fenris rushed downstairs as if he’d been waiting for them, listening for the creak of the door. He gestured for Anders to come in and joined Hawke by the entrance.

“What do you think? Not too austere?”

“When did you do all this? Last time I offered to help fix the place up you yelled you’re not Danarius’ caretaker.”

“And I’m not. He’s not coming back, this is my house now.”

“You sounded adamant. Smashed a bookcase.”

“I was about to burn it anyway, it was winter.”

“This must have cost a fortune,” she said, examining the floor tiles again. Some of them were still cracked, carefully slotted together.

“Paint, plaster and timber, mostly. I did the work myself, Varric found me a book of instructions. I ripped up the tiles from the other rooms - I enjoyed the effort, actually. It’s only in here for now. I’m about to start on another room, and then my bedroom.”

He picked up a large painting propped under the staircase and turned it over to show it to her.

“I burned all those human portraits he had, never liked how they stared at me. But the walls seem bare now, don’t you think? There’s only this landscape that I can bear with, but it’s too wide for that space in front, and if I put in on a side wall - should there be another opposite? It makes the whole room look askew if there’s just one.”

He paced around the room, his bare feet soft on the tiles, and experimentally held the painting to different spots on the walls. He was wearing a shirt she’s not seen before: his customary black, but knitted from thin, warm wool, loose around his neck, covering his arms past his wrists. He barely looked older than six years ago, when she’d first met him, but he did look different. There was something subtly softer about his face now, something more grounded in the way he stood and moved. He looked like he was home.

“Why are you asking me?” she laughed. “Just go with what you like, that’s the whole point! This is for you and nobody else.”

“I wouldn’t have bothered just for me.”

He put the painting down, leaned on the wall next to her and straightened his overlong sleeves.

“Did you let Anders pick his room?” he asked. “Or did you choose it for him?”

“You did,” she said. “That night you put him to bed in the room next to mine. He just stayed there. I told him he’s free to pick another one, or redecorate however he liked, no expense spared. But he never did. Why?”

“I guess he’s not the best example. Hypothetically, imagine someone who’s not - possessed, or obsessed, whatever the word of choice might be, moving into a new, strange home. Would freedom to choose a room and fix it however they like reassure them? Or would having a place ready for them make them feel welcome and wanted?”

He waited for her answer with a little nervous frown. This bizarre hypothetical puzzle mattered to him. He needed an answer - he was out of his depth, he wanted her to help him.

“Fenris,” she said, taking in all the freshly spruced up space again. “Did you find someone? Is this for them? Are they moving in?”

He pulled away a little and shook his head vigorously.

“I don’t want to talk about it. Not yet. It’s still too - precarious. Fragile. I didn’t want to tell you until I knew it was happening, and it’s still not a certainty. But I’m - I find myself - I needed a friend’s ear.”

“You’re nervous,” she said, smiling through a sudden bitter spasm in her chest. She was happy for him, so happy. It hurt that it couldn’t have worked out between them, hurt like a fist to the face, but the pain was already fading, just it would have from a real punch. “It’s normal. I’m sure the boys would give you plenty of questionable advice tonight.”

“I wanted yours,” he said and shifted closer to her again. “A woman’s touch, or - I don’t know. I always want your advice when I’m floundering.”

“Well then,” she said. “Do both. Get one room clean and aired, put fresh linens on the bed and some daisies in a vase. You can do the rest together. I’m really happy for you. Did I say that already? I’m so happy for you. You deserve this.”

“It’s not done yet. But… yes. If it all works out… I’ll owe that to you, as well. I couldn’t have done this without your friendship.”

“Great,” she said. “Great! Oh, and the painting. Yes, it does look stupid with just one. I’ll commission one for the opposite wall. A gift. For you both. There’s a Fereldan painter living in the sewers, she’d love some work. I already know what the subject will be.”

“Hawke,” he grinned. “Is it going to be a painting of your mabari?”

“What, she’s gorgeous,” Hawke said, pouting.

“And menacing, if you don’t know her. Could she be doing something amusing, to make the painting welcoming? Varric says she can play cards…”

“That’s brilliant!” Hawke gasped, but before they could get to the meat of this inspired artistic idea Varric poked his head out of the Fenris’ room and yelled:

“Come on, you two, stop propping up that wall! Fenris, we’re about to deal your hand, whether you’re here or not!”

“They’ll fleece me if I don’t watch them,” Fenris said apologetically.

“Yes, I have to go. Need to take care of…”

“Your current ill-advised enterprise.”

“I know your opinion. You still helped.”

“Always,” he said. “Just as I’ll always speak my mind if I disagree. I’m… looking forward to that painting. Thank you.”

Hawke walked home in the gathering twilight, unaccountably tired, even though she did nothing all day but walk around town and talk to people. Bear snored by the hearth; she flopped over clumsily, waking up as Hawke came in, and trotted over to lick at her hands.

“Shh, girl,” Hawke whispered. “We’re going to steal some food, so hush now. Quiet like burglars, all right?”

The servants went to bed early: Orana started her daily cooking before dawn, and sent Sandal to the market shortly after that. Now, past sundown, the way had to be clear.

Hawke tiptoes to the kitchens, reached into the pantry and just then spotted a pale shadow move in the corner of her vision. She yelped and dropped the stale loaves on the gleaming, clean kitchen floor.

“Good timing,” said Orana and put down the book she was reading by the waning light from the window. “I was about to light a candle, and then I wouldn’t have seen this.”

“I’m just,” Hawke said, gathering the loaves before Bear could have at them. “Hey, it’s my house, I can do what I want here!”

“You have three people locked in the cellar, don’t you?” Orana said. “Judging by how much food messere Anders has been stealing from the pantry.”

“They’re not locked, they’re there voluntarily. I mean, what are you talking about, we’re just being eccentric.”

Orana pursed her lips and pushed at Hawke a tray laden with plates and bowls, all carefully covered with linen napkins.

“Here, a proper supper instead of dry scraps. A serving for you as well, since you’re never home. I don’t know why you keep them secret from us. You really hurt Bodahn’s feelings this time.”

“I’m trying to keep you safe,” Hawke muttered, taken aback. The supper smelled delicious, even though it had to be mostly cold dishes. “Besides, if you knew who they were, you might not want to help them.”

“I’m helping you,” Orana said. It was dark enough in the kitchen for her eyes to glow just a little, as if her indignation was literally blazing. “And helping myself run an orderly kitchen. I’ve put this together from leftovers, but I’ll buy and cook for three more from tomorrow.”

“They’re leaving before dawn.”

“I’ll pack them a breakfast, then,” Orana said, and if it was with relief, Hawke couldn’t tell.

She began gathering supplies right away, and Hawke picked up the tray and left her to it.

Bear ran ahead and growled at the door. Someone was outside, knocking softly, as if they were afraid to be heard. Anders had the keys, which meant this had to be an unexpected and unwelcome visitor.

“Whoever you are, come tomorrow!” Hawke yelled at the door.

“Champion,” said the voice with a heavy accent that never failed to set Hawke’s teeth on edge. “It’s me, Dulci, please, I need to see him.”

Hawke shifted the tray to one arm and thumbed the lock open. Madame du Launcet was at the door, swaddled in dark lace veil, shivering in her silks in the rapidly cooling air.

“Dulci,” Hawke sighed. “We spoke about it, it’s not safe…”

“Oh, but why? I’m only visiting my close friend Marian, no? Please, lady Amell, my dear, just think - when will I get to see my boy again?”

There was no arguing with that. Hawke led Dulci to the cellars and down the narrow stone staircase, to where Hawke kept her modest stash of medium grade wine and, recently, six travel cots.

They only needed three in the end. But leaving the rest there was easier than folding them away while the others watched. The first two nights the empty cots stood untouched, like makeshift memorials to absent friends, but by now some of the mages’ meagre belongings have migrated there. There was a little altar Anders had set up in the corner, flowers wilting in a jar on a crate by each cot, some books and and plenty of lamps to read by. It all was as homey as possible, for a cellar occupied by tree people who’d not had a real wash in some days.

“Maman!” cried Emile and threw himself in her arms.

“My boy, my sweet boy, my only boy,” she sobbed. “Oh, Emile, this is awful!”

“Oh, the rooms aren’t bigger in the Gallows, and the food is much better here. Oh, maman, don’t cry! You’ll come to the aunt’s estate to visit me soon, won’t you?”

Hawke left them to hug and weep and offered the supper tray to the other two.

“You’re all setting off for Orlais tomorrow,” she said. “We’ll get you up early, so get some rest. Huon, Nyssa will join us. My friend already gave her the maps to the Dalish trails there and the letter to the Keeper. They’ll take you both in.”

“Nyssa agreed? Oh, I didn’t dare hope - it’s been ten years, I thought she’d…”

“She still loves you. She wants to use her magic, she said it’s a waste not to, and it’s a waste of both your lives to be apart. She said - uh, Huon, where did you get these boots from? No way that’s circle clothes.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said vaguely. “Who can remember? Would you like them? I don’t need shoes if I’m to live with the Dalish.”

“They do match my gloves… Anyway, the story will be that you went insane and killed Nyssa, and I had to put you down. Just to explain why both of you disappeared. If templars ask for the bodies the hahren will say they’ve already burned them, like good Andrasians.”

“Did you find my kids?” Evelina asked, eating slowly, as if she was still trying to save half of her meal for starving children. “Walter, and Cricket, and the others?”

“I did, they’re fine. Some families have been helping them out. They’re really big already, it’s been years, you know. They remember you, of course. I told them you’d be so proud that they stayed together and looked after each other.”

“Do you have to tell them you killed me, too? Can’t you tell them the truth? Just them? Nobody else would know.”

Hawke was about to say that kids were kids and would likely spill the secret, but Evelina would be on her way to Orlais by then. She wouldn’t know any different.

“Sure,” she said. “Madame du Launcet wrote to her sister about you, you can journey to her estate with Emile. Her son is just five, they’ll hire you to look after him and teach him, if he has the gift. You can go back to Ferelden if you don’t like it.”

“Don’t thank me,” said Dulci when Evelina attempted to rise and bow. “My Emile will have an old friend with him, that’s all I want. It’s like your little circle family is still together, no? Oh, but also, Champion, cherie, do you have to tell people my Emile turned into abominacion? It’s just so… common. Can’t you spin a different tale? Please? For me?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Hawke said. “I hate to tear you apart, but we all do need to get some rest.”

She picked a bottle off the rack on her way out and took it to the library, hoping Gamlen would be still up and coherent enough for a game of chess.

The place was empty. There was a hefty book set aside on the bureau, and a note on top of it:

 

Hawke,

You must read this, you’ll enjoy it greatly.

Fenris.

 

“A Shadow Unfolds,” Hawke read off the cover. “Sounds cheery, thanks, Fenris. Better have dragons in it.”

She settled down on the couch with the book and the bottle, and that’s how Anders found her some time later: snoring, hugging the empty bottle, her legs dangling off the side, the tome still open on the second page.

“Let’s take you to bed,” he said and pressed a kiss to her hair.

“Carry me?” she whined with a childish shamelessness of a drunk, and, to her surprise, he scooped her up, cradled her against his chest and carried her to her bedroom. She twisted her fingers in the chain that held his coat together and closed her eyes, and enjoyed floating, safe against his body.

“Stay,” she begged when he lowered her onto her bed. “Just… We have to get up soon anyway. Stay.”

He hovered in place for a moment, and then took of his coat and boots and stretched next to her, their shoulders pressed together.

“What is it, love?” he asked quietly after listening to her breaths and sighs for a while.

“I don’t know,” she said dully. It was, most likely, the weight of the last few days coming off her shoulders: the constant fear that the templars would track the mages back to her house somehow, even without the phylacteries. The lies she had to keep straight, the pressure of putting together all the moving pieces for the safe getaway.

And her courses were due, which didn’t help. And her friends were all happy, all settling down - Aveline and Donnic, Isabela and Merrill, Varric and Bianca, Fenris and his mystery love. Even the runaway mages in her cellar had families: wife, kids, parents. Anders had Justice. Only Hawke was left behind, stuck, forever pining for what she couldn’t have, and even her dog was ready to sell her out for a cookie.

“I’m tired, I guess,” she said. “I feel old. And lonely.”

His hand found hers and held it, his fingers on the beat of her pulse, stroking as if to soothe her restless heart.

“You’re neither,” he said. “You will be old, many years from now, and that’s a good thing. But you’ll never be alone. No matter what happens, you’ll be loved.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why does Huon canonically have the Champion’s boots? Honestly, Bioware. Even the dragon having that chest piece makes more sense. Next up: Danarius rolls into town and briefly ruins everyone’s day.


	19. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris attempts to introduce Hawke to his family. Some murders happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during Alone.

“Of course I’ll come with you,” Hawke said. “So… That person you’ve found, the one you’ve been fixing up your home for… That was your sister?”

“Who else could that be?” Fenris swept his hands out in exasperated gesture. She’d not seen his this agitated for years, probably since Hadriana. “Who else do I have?”

“I thought - a new lover, perhaps.”

“What? Why would you think that? Why would I seek a new lover, when--”

“When you have so many old ones?” she offered when he stumbled over the next word, and that, finally, got a crooked smile out of him.

“Hawke, this has been three years in the making,” he said. “And now she’s here, and I’m not ready.”

He pulled a thick stack of papers from a bureau drawer and handed them to her. The pages were mismatched, of varying quality and cleanliness, and each seemed to be written in a different hand. Hawke flipped through invoices for services rendered, skimmed several reports curtly stating that the clues were a dead end but the payment was still expected promptly.

“Once I realised that if I could read and write I could converse with anyone in the world, I knew I had to learn,” Fenris said. “Finding her was half the battle. It took months, nearly a dozen letters, to convince her to come here.”

He saw the page Hawke had flipped to, stopped talking and nodded at it encouragingly. Hawke pulled it free from the pile and began wading through the excessively frilly script of a hired scribe.

 

“Brother

You last missive left me all the more convinced that it would be best for us both to let the past be. It pains me to know that you forgot Mother, and the path that led you to your current ”

 

It was another reminder of how they’d drifted apart since their night together. There had been no more talking late into the night since then, no more getting drunk and maudlin together and sharing their strangest, ugliest secrets. Now he bared his heart to Varania instead, and spying on half the conversation like this was just fishing for crumbs.

“This is private, I shouldn’t,” Hawke said and handed the papers back to him.

“I don’t mind. In fact, I’d like your opinion.”

“What for? We’re about to talk to her face to face. If you’d given this to me when you got it, months ago, I’d happily picked this apart, looked for hidden meanings and helped you craft a perfect reply. But what’s the point now?”

He put the papers away, tightened the buckles on his armour and strapped on his scabbard.

“You’re angry,” he said, not meeting her eyes.

“Yes, I am. I thought you’d tell me about this. We could have worked on your letters together, during our lessons. I could have gone to Tevinter to fetch her, or Isabela would have. I don’t know why you’d leave me out - Andraste’s tits, is this how Bodahn feels?”

He only gave a vague shrug for an answer and headed for the door.

He kept ducking his head low, letting his hair fall over his eyes, all the way to Lowtown, and wouldn’t stop glancing over his shoulder. His nervousness was starting to affect her, like a contagious rash.

“Want to get the gang together? Just in case?”

“I… Yes. That’s a prudent move. But not Anders. I don’t want him jumping down her throat with his mage rights on her first day here. She had her share of suffering at the Magisters’ hands, I’m sure.”

“Varric and Aveline?”

“Varric and Merrill,” he said reluctantly. “I’ve spent Aveline’s patience for today, I think. If this is a trap, there will be blood magic. Merrill will know what to do.”

“All right, we’ll swing by the Alienage. Stop fretting. This is my city, of which I am the Champion. Whoever comes after us, we can take them.”

“Oh, it’s not just that,” he said. “I’ve been thinking… Perhaps I’m just looking for more misery there there’s no cause, but it’s difficult to shut these thoughts out… What if Varania doesn’t like me?”

“Why wouldn’t she? You’re family. Of course she will.”

He nodded uncertainly and stared at the ground for some time, which, for a barefoot person in Lowtown, was always a good idea.

“Do you think I’m a good person?” he asked.

“What?”

“All your friends do something for others. Aveline serves the city, Varric looks after all of us, Anders has the clinic. Both mages at least believe, rightly or wrongly, that their efforts will help their people. Even Isabela, for all that she preaches self-interest, risked everything to bring back the relic. You, of course, stick your neck out for everyone and everything. And I… I am not like that.”

She could tell him that none of them had ever set out to become better people through selfless deeds. That all of them were refugees, outcasts and pariahs, and most of what they did was to dull the pain, or to force some semblance of sense onto a world full of chaos and ruin. That even Anders, constantly ridden into battle by a righteous spirit, hardly had a day when he liked himself enough to believe he deserved something as simple and vital as friendship.  

“You’re a good friend,” she said instead. “And you’ll make a great brother. That’s what matters.”

“You think so?”

“Yes. My brother was amazing, and his favourite thing was telling me not to stick my neck out. You have the hang of it already!”

“Hawke, please,” he said, frowning at his feet. “Don’t tell me I remind you of your brother.”

“Oh, is that because of that time we - right, in that case I shouldn’t mention that Anders reminded me and Bethy of our Dad.”

“Really?”

“Oh, not physically. Just the apostate pride, though Dad was never vocal about it. Couldn’t be, for our sakes. No, my dad was a huge hairy bear of a man, I’m sure he could have lifted Anders with one arm.”

“Who couldn’t? He’s just feathers, skin and bones.”

“True. You’d have liked my dad. He was a lot of fun. He had a bit of a belly, and a full black beard he was weirdly proud of. He had Chasind blood, or at least we thought so, he didn’t remember his parents. Me and Carver ended up pale like Mother, but Bethany looks just like him, except for the beard and the boobs.”

“And the hairy bear part, I suppose.”

“No, we’re both pretty hairy. Fenris, honestly, there’s nothing to worry about. Sisters are the best. It will all click into place once you’re actually together. She’ll love it here. Jean-Luc will hire a Tevinter tailor in a heartbeat. And if she wants to start up on her own, I’ll happily invest, and Aveline and Varric will pull strings and cut corners. Isabela will make sure nobody ever looks at her wrong, and Merrill will be her first friend here. It’s going to be great. I can’t wait to meet her.”

“You seem more excited than I feel,” he said. “I think I’ve pinned too many hopes on this to feel anything other than dread right now.”

“I am excited! It’s been a while since we made a new friend. It’s about time.”

They broke Merrill out of her scholarly half-trance in front of the mirror and told her the news, and Fenris was even distracted enough to endure an happy half-hug from her. They fell into the Hanged Man together, laughing and brushing shoulders. Hawke spotted Varric in his usual corner and waved at him, and then, as soon as she began scanning the crowd, she knew.

They must have had different fathers, or just didn’t take after the same parent, and didn’t look as aggressively alike as the Hawke siblings used to. Varania was skinny, pale and ginger, but Hawke could see the thread of familial resemblance in their faces. And they recognised each other - Fenris surged to her right away, began babbling out some childhood memories…

Varric meaningfully arched his eyebrow at them, and Bianca was already loaded and drawn. Varania’s voice quivered, and not from excitement. Several men at two tables beside Varania, none of whom Hawke had ever seen here before, were edging their hands toward their blades. It was a trap, sure enough, and it was about to be sprung. But it didn’t look like anything they couldn’t handle.

And then an old man sauntered down the stairs, and Hawke saw Fenris’ knees buckle.

The sheer horror in his eyes was heartbreaking to see, and what was worse, he had no good reason to be afraid. Danarius brought a few more goons with him, and he could cast a few spells before they’d cut him down, if he really was a Magister of great calibre. But he was just a man, greying and frail, and he was in their favourite haunt, where Hawke regularly bought rounds for everyone. At the very least, if things would look hairy for her, someone would run out to fetch the guard.

“And this is your new mistress, then?” Danarius was saying. “The Champion of Kirkwall? Quite lovely.”

“Fenris doesn’t belong to anyone,” Hawke said. She was blushing, which, she hoped, looked like a healthy glow of rage. Of all the possible ways to say ‘mistress’ Danarius had somehow found the oiliest. He must have practised it all the way to the Free Marches. Fenris must have written about them in his letters to Varania…

“Do I detect a note of jealousy? Not surprising. The lad is rather skilled, isn't he?”

It was true, then, Hawke realised, staring into Danarius’ too-pale, mocking eyes. What Isabela had said - what this man had done to Fenris - it was all true, and worse.

Fenris screamed at him to shut up and turned his brands alight. Hawke lobbed a combustion grenade at Danarius’ feet and set his robes smouldering, leapt at him and buried both blades in his flesh.

The goons were rushing Fenris, all towering over him. Demons and shades, wave after wave, rose in the corners of the tavern. Hawke ignored them all and stayed on Danarius, stabbing him over and over, spat and yelled into his face with the single-minded fury that burned her guts like fire. 

He closed his wounds as soon as she made them. She saw his flesh knit into greyish scars through the slashes she made in his robes. He kept raising the barrier between them, and she hacked at it, slammed into it with her shoulder. Shades’ claws ripped through her armour and sliced at her shoulders, and she set her jaw to ignore the pain and kept going.

Suddenly Merrill was at her side, as if she’d popped up through the floor. She threw at Danarius a hex that made him stumble, and gave Hawke a forceful shove.

“Focus, Hawke,” she said. Both her arms were slick with blood to her elbows, and the front of her robes was soaked too. All the cuts were self-made, Hawke was sure, but that didn’t make it better. She’d turned her back on the roomful of demons for a single enemy. They would have ripped her apart, if Merrill and Varric hadn’t protected her. 

Varric was pinned in the corner by the rage demon, and Hawke left Danarius to Merrill and Fenris and rushed to help.

Fire signed her face as she slashed through it, trying to find the demon’s fleshy form under the flames. Norah jumped up from behind the bar and, with an ear-piercing yell, threw half a bucket of water at the demon’s middle.

It painted a dark stripe through the flames, dampening them just for a moment, and Hawke thrust her knives there, through the thin black crust that crumbled like eggshell. The demon fell, steaming, smelling pleasantly yeasty. That hadn’t been water, then. Must have been the dregs of beer from the patrons’ cups, probably collected to be served all over again.

Hawke whirled around, looking for the next target, but there were none. All the thugs were dead, the demons were gone, and Danarius was dangling helplessly in the air, his neck in Fenris’ fist.

It was done in a snap, with a satisfying wet crunch. Hawke rushed to Fenris, picking her way through the bodies, and stumbled to his side just in time to see him turn on Varania.

For a moment she thought she wouldn’t convince him to stop, that they were both too high on blood, and would have to fight each other over this. But he listened, let go, and, with one last awful barb at him, Varania finally left.

His anger seemed to have drained away completely. He spoke softly, looking tired, dejected.

“I was wrong. There’s nothing for me to reclaim,” he said. “I am alone.”

“I’m here, Fenris,” Hawke said.

He leaned closer and looked right into her eyes. It was still rare, and made her breath catch every time. For a short moment she thought he’d kiss her, right now, in front of everyone, with both their faces still splattered in blood. She had a wild flash of a fantasy: him grabbing her in a tight hug, pulling her down onto the gore-slick floor, claiming her right there, next to the corpse of his oldest enemy - and then it became too gross to be sexy, and he was already stepping away from her again.

Once he left Hawke waited for a few long moments, with her friends’ eyes on her, stood in the middle of the murder scene that still needed smoothing over. She would need to talk to Aveline, she would have to pay for the damages. When she thought Fenris would have turned a corner, she ran out of the door and raced across the street, checking all the side alleys.

“He would have just gone home,” said Varric, nodding at the street leading toward Hightown.

“I’m not worried about him,” Hawke said. She glimpsed a flash of colour that could be Varania’s dress and ran after her.

Varania wheeled toward them and threateningly raised her arm.

“Not a step closer,” she said. “So you do want revenge, just not in front of witnesses?”

“No, Varania, wait,” Hawke said. “Fenris - Leto - he’s upset. He’ll calm down, and he’ll want to get to know you, he’ll want to be your brother. He was so excited to meet you, he’d been making plans to make you comfortable here. He was going to give you a great, happy, safe life.”

Her lips turned pale, and she shook her head.

“I don’t want to know him,” she said. “He’d not been my Leto since he chose to compete in that sick contest. I didn’t want that sacrifice, I never wanted him to throw his heart away for me. He’s a monster now, addled by lyrium. A murderer.”

“Just give him time,” Hawke begged. “Please. You’ll love him, he’s wonderful. You can stay with me. I have a big family - I mean, it’s a full house. We’re always glad to have one more. There’s an elven woman from Tevinter, you could…”

“What, be best friends with her?” she laughed. “Because we have so much in common? Help her scrub your chamber pots and be grateful? You think because I’m alone and penniless in a land I don’t know, I’ll cling to you for protection? You think I’d serve you, along with that thing my little brother has turned into?”

“You will be my guest,” Hawke said. “And you’ll leave this attitude at the door. You betrayed my friend, so, yes. You should be grateful I’m still letting you breathe.”

“I was saving him! Have you read those letter he sent me? They’re just a long scream of pain. He’s lost, he’s lonely, he can’t live like this. He needs to belong. He would have submitted, if you weren’t there. We’d all be on our way home now.”

“No,” Hawke said. “No, you’re lying, he’s happy here, he’s fine. And you’re not awash with choice. Even in the Alienage nobody will hand you free shelter and food. If you think your magic will provide for you, it’s not that simple.”

“Oh, it will,” she said. “I know what South is like. Circles here take any mage, even a slave-born elf.”

She turned and ran toward the solitary templar at the foot of the stairs. Hawke saw someone at this post every day: the poor sod’s task seemed to be to just stand there, constantly asking if anyone saw any apostates lately.

And they were about to. Finally this stupid assignment was going to pay off.

“No, don’t,” Hawke said, catching up with her. Varric and Merrill didn’t follow too closely: they spread out, trying to control the area in case a fight was about to break out. “These Circles aren’t like Tevinter. They’re prisons, the templars are cruel--”

“I’m sure we have a very different view on what cruelty is,” she said. “Leave me.”

“Don’t do this. If you come with me you can always change your mind, but if they take you to the Circle, you’re trapped. There’s no going back.”

Hawke tried to catch her by the elbow, to pull her back, and Varania pushed her away and wheeled a step further.

“Touch me again and I’ll burn your face off and claim self-defence. And I’ll tell them about your friend. I saw her cut herself, I know what she is. Even in Tevinter a maleficar wouldn’t walk free, unless they have the might of a great family behind them. I’ll tell the templars, and they will find her.”

She rushed toward the templar and gracefully fell to her knees at his feet. The man backed away a little, worriedly hitching up his skirt when she reached for the hem, perhaps, to kiss it.

“I am a Liberati Tevinter mage,” she said, keeping her face turned to the ground. “I was abandoned here when my patron passed away. I believe my place is in your Circle, if you would take me there.”

She lifted an arm above her head and conjured a small, cool light in her palm.

The templar looked at her, then at Hawke. He had the full helmet on, and she couldn’t tell if he was one of the rookies, Chantry kids fresh from the orphanage. This stupid apostate patrol was probably busy work just for them.

“Champion?” he asked, just as she’d guessed, in a squeaky young voice. “Is this your friend? What do I do?”

“She wants you to have her,” Hawke said, and wondered if the boy would really give Varania to her without a fight, duty be damned. Then again, she was the Champion, the Slayer of the Arishok. Poor kid probably thought she’d squash him like a bug in so much plate armour if he stood up to her.

“And for Andraste’s sake, don’t tell anyone you just asked me that,” she added, and the helmet eagerly bobbed in agreement.

Varania rose, head deeply bowed, hands primly clasped before her. Hawke still shuffled near, she could tell her so much - warn her about the Harrowing, give her the names of the worst templars, ask her to pass a message to Bethany…

“Leave me be,” Varania said. “You ruined my life, stole my whole future. So leave me be, will you?”

So Hawke stood and watched as the templar awkwardly guided Varania toward the Gallows docks.

Varric and Merrill approached once he left and closed ranks with her.

“Well, that’s life, Hawke,” Varric said. “Can’t win them all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yes, this is almost a retelling of the game scenes, and I generally try not to. But damn, I could not resist writing about killing Danarius. It's just so satisfying.


	20. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nsfw: Fenris and Hawke get together again, and then talk about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say, I find negotiation really sexy.

Hawke turned up at Fenris’ mansion the very next day, with the painting of Bear framed and ready to hang up. She half-way expected to see the place trashed and freshly painted walls splattered with wine or slaver blood, but it was all as neat as before, and Fenris himself was smiling and cosy by the fire, chatting with Isabela.

Hawke would happily join the conversation, but Isabela inexplicably had to leave that very moment, and there were just the two of them, alone in the huge echoing house.

They’d not spent a lot of time together lately, not by themselves. Their reading lessons had always been at the Amell mansion, with the servants going about their day, Gamlen trying to converse with Fenris about foreign politics and Anders occasionally popping in to grab more writing supplies if he was working downstairs on his manifesto. And even those lessons had tapered off over a year ago now, once they’d both noticed that his spelling began to surpass hers. Since then they’d both been preoccupied, it seemed: he with his search for Varania, and Hawke with the Champion affairs, never ending stacks of letters begging for help or favours. She wondered if they’d no longer be at ease in each others’ company, and there would be awkward, stilted silences, shallow small talk. 

She clearly was wrong, because they’d barely exchanged a few words before they were kissing.

He was the one to reach for her this time. His arms went around her, strong and solid, and his lips found hers.

They kissed and kissed, breathing the scent of each other’s mouths and skin, clinging to each other as much as their armour allowed. She shook off her gauntlets and put her fingers into his hair, moaning at the softness of it.

“I had a lot of poetic lines planned,” he said against her lips, and pulled back to kiss the tip of her nose. “A long, overblown apology. This is a relief.” 

She curled her hand under the hem of his tunic and stroked his lower back, feeling the minute ridges of his vines slip under her touch. A line of goosebumps bloomed under her fingers and quickly settled down again.

“Are you going to take your clothes off this time?” she asked.

“I’d,” he said, and gasped when she turned her hand and touched him with her fingertips, making it ticklish and electric on purpose. “I’d rather not yet. It’s not modestly, it’s easier for me like this. I like your hands on me, on my arms, and yes, there. But the markings are more tender in some places.”

She hummed an agreement and carefully kissed near the dots on his forehead, and, at his happy sigh, over them, between them.

“This is like a dream,” she blurted out, pulling him in a tight hug, cheek to cheek, her head ringing with joy.

“That one where I finally find courage and the right words, and beg you to take me back, and, against all odds, you do? I had that one too. A lot,” he said with a soft rumbling chuckle she felt like a caress against her chest. “If this turns out to be a dream again, I’ll march over to your place right away and tell you how I feel. We’ve lost enough time. No more.”

They fell into another kiss, soft and reverent at first, but that didn’t last. Soon she was biting at his lips, chasing his tongue, and he lost his gauntlets as well and was blindly working at the buckles of her armour. He wasn’t making much headway: his fingers kept abandoning the straps to touch her face, her neck, to trace the curve of her hip. Her face burned, her blood thrummed with need, and all she wanted was to love him, take her pleasure, mindlessly and fearlessly, like she would if this really was a dream.

But he deserved better, she knew that.

“Wait,” she said, and he hastily stepped away from her.

“Of course. What is it?”

“We should talk. There’s a lot - ugh, I can’t believe I’m doing this. This might be the third perfect moment I’m about to ruin. But there are things you really should know.”

“You too, yes, I agree,” he said. “Last time we went into this rashly. I might not have lost three years to doubt and guilt if we’d talked it out a little bit more. I need to confess a few things. Set some rules.”

“Good, let’s do that,” she muttered and pulled him flush against her once more, and kissed him again, jubilantly, pleased that they were in agreement.

“This is not ideal, though,” he said, shifting his hips against her. He was already hard, and she desperately wanted their armour to come off, so she could feel him better, could see every line of his body. “Right now I’ll agree to anything you say, and that’s not how I want it to be.”

“Me neither. I should leave and come back later. But I feel like if I can’t have you tonight my head might burst.”

They were both silent for a while, clutching at each other’s arms. She stared at his lips, their perfect curve, their dark flush. They rocked against each other a little, pushing his trapped cock against her groin, both letting out tiny breathless gasps when it worked just right, despite the layers of cloth and leather and the hazards of metal studs. They had to either pull apart soon or admit that the carnal part of their reunion was already happening.

“All my concerns are about what would happen after,” he said. “Tomorrow. A year from now. None about this. Should we have this now and make decisions later? If you leave after you hear me out, so be it. I still want this.”

“Good plan,” she said and cupped his straining cock in one hand.

He made a choking sound, pushed against her palm and attacked their buckles again. She tried to help, one-handed, still stroking him in too-hard, rhythm-less, artless pulls. They managed to divest him of his breastplate and pauldrons and unfasten her armour about half-way, and then yanked on the next buckle too hard and, under their clumsy joint efforts, bent and jammed it stuck.

“Let’s cut it off, I’ll get a knife,” he panted into her ear, but she couldn’t let go of him for long enough, and the whole idea of undressing suddenly seemed needlessly logistically complicated.

“Fuck it, let’s just,” she pushed up the flaps of her jerkin, unfastened her trousers and clawed them down along with her underwear. They got stuck on her leg armour half-way down her thighs, but Fenris’ nicely callused fingers were on her heated skin already, stroking her ass, sliding between her legs and greedily dipping into her wet cunt.

She gave him one last, hard kiss, shuffled on her hobbled legs to his desk, pulling him along, and bent over it, shameless and needy, wriggling her naked rear in invitation.

“Fuck me, come on,” she begged, and there, there it was, his cock finally filling her, sliding in so easily, with the sweetest hint of a burn. He draped himself over her back and kissed her neck, and snapped his hips again and again, each thrust making her gnaw at her lips and clutch at the edge of the desk: too good, almost too much.

“Does our pact stand?” he asked, nuzzling his cheek against her hair. “If you don’t like something, you’ll let me know?”

“Yes,” she said, and he began fucking her in earnest, making the desk rattle against the tiled floor, and from then on she couldn’t shut up: yes, yes, please, yes, Fenris, yes.

He made her come twice with his fingers relentlessly teasing at her clit, his cock fucking into her in quick, hard strokes, and then she slapped his hand away, too tender and swollen there to take any more.

“Should I stop?” he asked, slowing down to soft, gentle rocking.

“No, fuck no, fuck me as long as you can last,” she moaned and angled her hips so his cock would hit her just right, just to that spot that made her flush with heat all over. He put his hand over hers, where her fingernails were digging grooves in the wood of his desk, laced their fingers together, and kept going, nipping and kissing at her ear, making her shudder and moan with every long, measured thrust.

They broke the desk when she bucked against it, riding out her next climax. The joint snapped and the whole thing collapsed, and Fenris caught her before she could face-plant onto the debris. He helped her brace against the wall and kept going, fucking her hard and fast, and just as she wondered how much longer her legs would hold, he abruptly pulled out and painted her skin with a splatter of warm come.

“That’s, that’s as much - you’re incredible,” he babbled, instantly clinging to her again. “I - I’ll take you to bed, come here.”

She happily tipped into his arms, and he carried her the few shaky steps to the corner. They tumbled into his bed together, both still mostly dressed, with trousers bunched around their knees, their bare asses handing out.

They exchanged a smile - neither had breath left for words - and panted, stroking each others’ arms, until their hearts stopped hammering.

Then Fenris pushed her feet off the bed and began unbuckling her boots.

“No filthy shoes on my bed,” he said. “Let’s call it the first rule.”

“Fine,” she said and finally wriggled out of her chest armour. “Wait! What about the visions? The memories?” 

He blinked, butted his head into her knees and let out a hoarse laugh.

“I - I forgot! I’d been scared of it for years, and forgot all about it!”

“It didn’t happen, then?”

“No,” he freed her from boots, leg armour and trousers, manoeuvred her bared legs back onto the bed and hugged them to his chest. “Nothing happened. Just bliss. We could nap first, if you don’t feel like talking yet. I promise I wont creep out of the bed this time.”

She shifted her hips, relishing his warmth and the tenderness still lingering inside her. She could agree and drag this out, lie next to him and listen to his breathing for the next few hours, just so they could have a little bit longer together if this wasn’t going to work out the second time either.

It seemed wrong to even want to consider the rules and the shape of this. Everyone knew how a true, good and loving union was supposed to work. That’s what her parents had: they’d met, they recognised their destiny right away, they pledged themselves to each others and sealed the promise with a physical act of love. They threw away their old lives without hesitation, because they only needed each other, only wanted each other, and that had never changed.

Anything other than that was a failure, something less. That’s how it always was in the courtly romances Mother and Bethany used to read: sex without love was empty, love without marriage was shallow, marriage without issue was a tragedy, and, of course, loving someone else was the worst treason of them all.

But if Hawke couldn’t be storybook-perfect, she could at least be upfront about it.

“No, let’s talk. The idea of life without you is awful to me too. Let’s start with that.”

He squeezed her tighter and waited for her to continue.

“But I also have feelings for Anders,” she said.

“That’s hardly news.”

“No, but, it’s not going to change. And, obviously, Anders isn’t going anywhere either.”

“All right, though I’m not sure how that concerns me. Should we now discuss the fact that I have feelings for Isabela?”

“Maker, me too,” she sighed. “But that’s different, whatever we feel, she’s with Merrill now.”

“Merrill isn’t her only lover. I wouldn’t have been the only one either, if I’d taken her up on her offer. I’m sure you have a standing invitation to their bed, too. Hawke, we’re free people. I don’t presume to own your heart or your body.”

She blinked, oddly moved, and leaned closer to kiss him. It still felt amazingly, thrillingly new, just like the first time, as if they were still only discovering each other’s lips and she didn’t have his drying come flaking off her backside.

“But you always make fun of Isabela,” she said.

“I make fun of everyone. It’s what I do, I’m hilarious,” he said, utterly deadpan. “She’s my best friend after you, and nothing she does is all that wild. Are all Fereldan humans so prudish? You, Aveline, and even Anders, despite his past…”

“What, compared to Orlesians? I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“There are other lands in Thedas. In Antiva, for instance, triads get the same regard as couples. Many Dalish couples have intimate friends, to ensure that the blood of their small clans doesn’t weaken. In Orzammar only one marriage in three is fertile, so several low caste families often live together, doting on a single child.”

“How do you know all this? You’ve not even been to Orzammar.”

“Hawke, you really need to read a book that’s not just about dogs and dragons. Start with ‘In Pursuit of Knowledge’, you own a copy.”

She pouted and kicked him in the shin, and he playfully nipped at her shoulder in retaliation. They giggled and pushed and pulled at each other, not quite play-wrestling, and ended up snuggled together under his thin blanket. The untended fire had gone out, the sun was setting, and the warmth of his skin felt even more exquisite as the room began to cool.

“Right, well, the next thing is,” she said. “I want to carry on living alone.”

“With a gaggle of servants, your uncle, and Anders. Who you have feelings for.”

She tilted her head to look at his face, but he was grinning. It was a joke.

“Not to worry. I had no intention of becoming part of your bedroom’s furniture.”

“Fenris…”

“I’m sorry, that sounded harsher than I meant it. No, I need my space too. You’re welcome to visit any time, as always. If you’d like to bring more comforts here to suit your needs, I’m happy to find a place for them. I’ll need a few things if I’m to spend nights at yours, too.”

“Good,” she exhaled happily, and imagined making space for him in her room: a chest of drawers by the side of the bed he seemed to prefer, a small shelf withing reach, for his books if he wanted to read in bed.

“It’s my turn for confessions,” he said. “You should know: the thought of fathering a child, even with you, fills me with dread.”

“Oh,” she said. She’d not even thought about the possibilities yet. It’s been a while since she’d last dreamt of that tiny blond miracle her and Anders would somehow manage to produce, but now she instantly imagined a child with Fenris’ narrow, pretty face, huge eyes of delicate green, mind as bright as a star. “Why?”

“I’m not whole, to start with. My mind and my body are in pain most of the time, and I can’t infect an innocent with this legacy.”

“But that’s… from the ritual, right?”

“I wouldn’t know. I don’t remember what I was like before. Maybe I had some of this from birth, and I’d pass it on. Maybe the ritual had corrupted my seed, too, like it did everything else. Just look at my hair.”

“It’s gorgeous,” she cooed, tangling her fingers in the ethereally soft strands.

“It’s gone grey, Hawke. It’s thin, limp and white like an old man’s. What else has been spoilt? There’s no safe way to find out. And, even though the child would look human, there are perhaps five men in Kirkwall with skin as dark as mine. People would know. Do you realise what it’s like being elf-blooded around here? And, having met my sister… The world doesn’t need another one like us. I’ve reread her letters since, they make a lot more sense now. I see so much of myself in her, and I hate it.”

“I could destroy all of these points with a few arguments,” Hawke said, upset and hurt in a way she couldn’t quite define. “But if you say no, fine. Besides, we know now, we might make a mage. I don’t want to end up like my aunt.”

“Any able Kirkwall denizen would be honoured to help you,” he said, softly, searchingly touching her shoulders. “You should, if you still want…”

She winced and shrugged, the familiar weight of guilt and anxiety settling in her gut at the thought. Every four weeks, tossing her bloodied underwear into the laundry basket, she resolved to get on with it next month. But she’d been busy, there had always been something else to distract her, and the idea of fucking a man other than Fenris or Anders wasn’t getting any more appealing with the passage of time.

“You wouldn’t need to,” he said, effortlessly reading her grimace. “I spoke with Merrill, and she said--”

“Fenris,” she gasped, theatrically pressing a hand to her bare breasts. “Were you researching blood magic spells for me?”

“No,” he huffed defensively. “She was the First before she was a maleficar. Plenty of Dalish women won’t touch a cock even for the lofty goal of restoring the People. There are other ways.”

She gave a non-committal nod, and they lay together a while, idly playing with each other’s fingers. Darkness was slowly gathering in the corners of the room, and his eyes began to glow a little, and she put her chin on his shoulder to watch every single spark and strand of light.

“So, you’re not leaving yet,” he said after a while, and she nodded.

“Next,” she said. “Why did you decide to try this again? What changed?”  

“Oh, I’d always hoped to. Last time, the visions… That experience was upsetting, and yet seductive. I wanted to delve deeper into them, to learn of my past, of who I am and where I belong. But to see to the heart of the visions I had to wade through other memories, sickening ones. I couldn’t bring myself to attempt it. I couldn’t give up on the idea, either, couldn’t resolve to ignore the flashes in my mind and simply enjoy your touch.”

She touched him then, stroked down from his shoulder to his wrist, tracing the twisting space between the markings, and he turned his arm into her caress.

“So I thought I’d learn of my past another way, and threw myself into finding Varania,” he said. “I thought getting to know my family, discovering the man I was meant to be would give me what I was missing. Make me into someone who can be with you without shame or fear, and think only of joy. That’s why I never told you of my undertaking. Didn’t want to get your hopes up, didn’t want to ask you to wait in case it all failed.”

“And now?”

“I don’t care about the visions now. My past holds no answers and no value. Danarius is dead. He can’t touch me, and I’m no longer afraid to see his face in my mind. If I ever do have another flash, it will be unpleasant, but it’ll pass.”

She tried to pull him into a hug, but he softly resisted and lay on his side, a foot away from her, to watch her face.

“Are you going to ask me about Danarius?”

“I wasn’t planning to,” she shrugged.

“You heard what he said. You must have. It’s all true. I was fond of him. I would have died for him. I always knew that one way or another I would die for him: I was his bodyguard, that was my job to do so, and if I could no longer work I was just a bag of blood for his next spell. And I still adored him. Sometimes he’d let me tend to his desires, praise me and let me sleep. Sometimes there would be agony and degradation, not always because it amused him, often just for lack of care. And it almost made no difference to how I felt about him. Sometimes he’d want to see me take my pleasure, and that was always revolting, but I abased myself and thanked him all the same. I told him I loved him, many times, sometimes even unprompted, just trying to please, and it always felt true. I don’t know how I could have been - but it’s all true.”

He fell silent and tried to calm his breathing. Hawke wondered if she should try to hug him again or he would recoil from her now. He still held her hand, but his grip was a little slack and his fingers were going cold. She held it tighter, trying to keep it warm, and he squeezed back, exhaling in a strange rush that sounded like gratitude, and her heart ached with the love for him.

“I don’t understand why you’re not disgusted,” he said.

“I’m proud of you.”

“Ten years, Hawke. That’s how long I’ve been free. And if you hadn’t been there, I’d have knelt for him again, I’d have done whatever he’d--”

“He’d dead now. And I’m here. And I’m proud of you.”

He took a few more forceful deep breaths, then sat up and pulled off his clothes. He lay back down, naked, gorgeous, took her hand and put her palm on his chest.

“Just… slowly.”

She swept her hand over his skin, feeling his muscles jump under her touch, and then again, quickly finding what made him tense up again, what kind of touch loosened him up and made his eyelids flutter.

“Anything else we should talk about?”

“There was a lot, but I’ll forget if you keep doing that,” he said as she swept her knuckles down his taught stomach, to the root of his thickening cock. “Ah - I don’t want to be penetrated. Not with toys, not with fingers, not with a tongue. Please don’t ask. If I change my mind, I’ll tell you.”

“All right.”

“No choking.”

“Ew, no,” she said, smiling shakily to cover up a surge of pity. “Do you care if you’re on top?”

“No,” he said with a puzzled frown. “Do people usually?”

“No, that’s a singular quirk, I think.”

She rolled over, settled between his legs and nuzzled at his cock.

“Can I kiss you all over?” she asked, and he smiled, stroked her hair and nodded.

They didn’t sleep that night. They walked to Amell mansion at the beginning of dawn, when streets were still almost empty. A few servants rushed down to the market, swinging their empty baskets, trying to get the first pick at today’s produce. A single guard tiredly trudged toward the Keep, yawning. The foundry furnaces roared to life, and the first trails of smoke marred the pink sky.

Hawke hadn’t felt like strapping herself back into her chest armour so she carried it over her shoulder, and the salty breeze teased her sweaty skin through her thin undershirt, peaked her already sore nipples and ruffled her hair, which was a mess anyway. She linked their arms together, drawing him close so their hips touched on every step, and he gave her a sideways glare but didn’t pull away.

“You have to remember, we can’t flaunt this in front of people. It’s dangerous.”

“I flaunt my apostate all the time.”

“Your human apostate. There’s a difference.”

“Ah, come on,” she said. “It’s us. Who’d fucking dare?”

“You have a point,” he said and planted a quick kiss on her lips, not even breaking his stride.

He kissed her again, deeply and thoroughly, under the blooming vines on the steps of her mansion as she fumbled for the key, and then again, once they were through the door, and then Bear barrelled into them with a delighted bark and put an end to that. Hawke tried to hush her but the household seemed to be up already: the clatter of plates was coming from the dining room, and the house smelled of eggs and fried bread. They’d dispensed with the servants’ table years ago and all ate together now, to make it less of a fuss.

“Must be later than I thought,” Hawke said.

“Your dog sure thought it was howling time,” said Gamlen, peeking out of the dining room. “Woke us up at - oh, hello, Fenris. You’re just in time for breakfast, unless you two ate already.”

“I didn’t have anything in,” Fenris said. “I shouldn’t, I should go.”

“Come on, son, grab a chair,” Gamlen prodded. Orana popped up behind his shoulder and made a quick, elaborate one-handed gesture, almost like a spell sign, and Fenris stopped edging toward the doors and followed them to the table.

The Feddics welcomed them cheerfully, as if nothing was amiss, but she could already see Bodahn’s eyes sparkling with questions. At least he had enough decorum not to press for juicy details at the breakfast table. Anders nodded in greeting and shifted his chair to make space. He seemed subdued, tired, as if he’d missed out on a night’s sleep too, but then, he often did.

“You look happy,” he told her quietly, with a small private smile, as he passed her the eggs. “Radiant. I’m glad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late posting this week :( I'm hoping to still stick with the weekly posting schedule, but it's been a bit difficult ngl. Hopefully there will be no hiatus until at least the end of DA2 timeline!


	21. Proper Courtship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and Fenris have a real date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much happens in this one, but I wanted to give them another quiet moment before things get loud.

Hawke napped the rest of the morning, dutifully attended an assembly meeting and spent it daydreaming about the last night, and then dragged Isabela and Merrill out to the docks.

They lazed on the pier, Isabela’s head in Hawke’s lap, and Hawke stroked her hair and tried to tell them, to share some of that tingly happiness that buzzed under her skin, but could only manage a few vague words before dissolving into breathless giggles.

“Honestly, you Fereldans,” Isabela groaned, and Hawke burst out laughing again.

“That’s what he said! Oh, oh, he was so surprised when I gagged! Like he didn’t think that would happen if he tried to shove it all in, you know?”

“Oh, honey,” said Isabela and patted Hawke’s knee. “Was that your first try?”

“No,” Hawke huffed. “Of course not. I am thirty-two, I am an experienced woman. What, can it all fit? Back in Lothering boys were happy if you just lipped at the tip, that’s pretty much all it took…”

“Give me your left hand,” Merrill said in her sweet voice, high and clear like crystal wind chimes, and fussed with Hawke’s fingers, folding them in a particular way. “Try it upside down: stretch your neck back like this, squeeze your fist like this, and his cock will slide all the way down your throat until his balls are mashed in your face, easy as you please. It’s really such a shame that shemlen don’t teach their kids anything.”

“And you don’t like it, don’t do it,” Isabela said, while Hawke soundlessly gasped for air, scandalised and yet already fully invested in that mental picture. “Any man who’d push you into anything can fuck right off, even if he’s that pretty.”

“Of course, that goes without saying,” Merrill said. “I’m only sharing knowledge.”

Hawke would run straight to Fenris’ mansion after that, but she was determined to play her cards right. The rules of proper courtship were clear: three days between the first date and the next, to give your new lover some breathing space and to build anticipation. Clothes weren’t meant to come off until the next stage, but that ship had sailed.

She spent the evening in the study, answering letters, and bade goodnight to Anders at a respectfully early hour. There was a stack of books on her bedside table, all the volumes Fenris maintained she had to read. She lit the candles and snuggled in her bed with the book that looked the least intimidating.

She flinched awake from a doze, her fingers slipping off the leather cover. The candles still burned, and the moons hadn’t risen much, and there was a shadow of her sound in her mind, an irritation that had woken her.

There was a soft plinking sound from her window, something small hitting the glass. That’s it, there it was again.

There were no branches outside to tap on her window when the wind rose, and no windowsill for a bird to perch there to annoy her. She wondered if it was beginning to hail outside, and if she’d finally see the streets painted white again, like she used to back in Ferelden. But, no, that was a foolish fantasy. It never snowed here, and any hailstones that might make it to the ground would be black from the foundry smoke.

Another clink from the window, and then another, and yet more. Irregular, with obnoxious pauses in between, as if whoever was lobbing stones at her mansion gleefully waited for her reaction after each one.

Hawke tossed the book aside, shrugged on her robe, marched to the window and yanked it open.

“How about I make you gather all these stones and shove them right up your--” she began, and then lost all her breath at once.

Fenris stood under her window, with a perfect long-stemmed rose clasped in his teeth, a bottle in his hand and another under his arm. He dropped a pebble he’d been aiming, spat out the flower into his hand and held it aloft toward her.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” he asked.

Hawke curled up in her window frame, hugged her knees and stared down at him, grinning like a fool, trying to commit the sight to her memory.

“This has to be the most romantic thing that ever happened to me,” she said.

“Oh, good,” he said and tucked the rose behind his ear. “Then it won’t be hard to top. Can I come in? I think I miscalculated how many bottles I can carry while climbing a wall, could you throw down a backpack? Or if you want to climb out, I’ve put fresh sheets on my bed…”

“I appreciate the thought and the flair,” she said. “But come on, I’m not a princess in a tower. This is my house, just come in through the front door, that’s what it’s for.”

“I… think Anders is downstairs.”

“So? Come in.”

She closed the window before he could object. Bear still lazed on the bed, but she had her ears up and her rear cautiously wagging.

“Yes, girl, it’s Fenris,” Hawke said. “Let’s go greet him.”

Bear yelped happily, jumped off the bed and ran to the door to claw it open.

Anders was downstairs, bent over the drafts of his manifesto, chewing on the end of the quill. The page in front of him was empty except for a few dried ink stains. He turned at the sound of her footsteps, and she could almost see frustration melting away from his eyes, as if he welcomed a distraction.

“I thought you’d gone to bed,” he said. “Can’t sleep? We could--”

“I have a guest, actually.”

She unlocked the door and waved Fenris in.

“Anders,” he said dryly, fending off Bear’s attempts to lick his face, and handed Hawke the rose. She buried her nose in the cool petals and inhaled the scent, familiar but more exhilarating somehow, fresher, sweeter than she remembered roses to smell.

Orana wandered into the parlour in her nightie, with her hair loose and face puffy from sleep, and peered at them, rubbing her eyes.

“Thought I heard something,” she mumbled around a yawn. “When you put this in water, remember to trim the stem and add honey and vinegar. Fenris, I came to tell you, there’s a basin for you under her wardrobe. Don’t get into the bed until you’ve washed, all right?”

Hawke blinked in dismay, confused. From anyone else she’d take that as a disgusting joke, an insult, something about dirty knife-ears, and she’d rage at them - but Orana was an elf too, why would she…

And Fenris, Fenris himself didn’t look offended in the slightest. He nodded calmly, a bit sheepishly, if anything.

“What the hell, Orana? How is this any of your business?” Hawke finally managed. Orana yawned again, and wordlessly gestured downward until she could speak again.

“For his feet, he walks barefoot, the streets are filthy.”

“I appreciate it, Orana, thank you,” Fenris said. “I have a foot bath at home, of course, I wash when I get in, but here… I would have asked, it’s just, whenever we… It’s been… spontaneous. I’m sorry about the other time.”

“I should think so,” Orana said. “First time you slept here the sheets were a dead loss.”

“Ohhh,” Hawke said, remembering the aftermath of their first night together. “The stains! You were so distraught about them, and it was just mud, from his feet?”

“Of course. What else could it have been? Oh, did you think I couldn’t get semen stains off linen? That’s almost insulting.”

“This conversation is both a gift and a curse,” Anders said from his seat, snickering behind his hand. “On one hand, ew. On the other, I can’t wait to tell Varric all about this.”

“It was my first day here, as well,” Orana went on, clearly enjoying the dark blush that crept up Fenris’ face. “I was all alone, so scared. I had now idea what would happen to me if I couldn’t wash off that mud, how might the new mistress punish me. In the end I hid the sheets, and then donated them to the poor.”

“Not to Lirene’s?” Anders asked with sudden worry, and Orana laughed, patted his head and headed back to her bedroom.

Hawke waved Fenris upstairs and went to the kitchens to put her rose in honey-sour water in a glass goblet. When she returned to the parlour Fenris was still hovering behind Anders’ back with those two bottles, and despite Anders’ deep frown of concentration no new words had appeared on the page. 

“Anders, will you join us for a drink?” Fenris asked after throwing a quick searching glance at her.

“You’ve known me for six years, you’re perfectly aware that I don’t drink.”

“You don’t get drunk. But this is an excellent vintage, you might just enjoy the taste.”

“Humour us,” Hawke said and fetched the glasses, and Anders, of course, complied.

They sat in the high-backed fancy chairs Leandra had bought and immediately had sent back to be reupholstered to her taste, and sipped the wine in fragile silence. Cooling coals in the fireplace gave out the occasional soft crackle, and Bear started snoring a little, curled around Anders’ feet. She clung to him a lot lately, even though he still didn’t particularly welcome her affections. With anyone other than a healer infused with the spirit of the Fade, Hawke would have thought that Bear was sensing they were coming down with something, and tried to offer comfort and ward off the disease.

This, odd and awkward as it was, seemed like a scene straight from her fantasies: both men she loved, sat cosily in her house, enjoying the comforts of it. For once, not squabbling.

“So what do you usually do here?” Fenris asked. “I only have people around to play cards, I haven’t given much thought to how others share their leisure.”

“When Gamlen is up we all usually yell at each other,” Hawke said. “Otherwise, chess. Anders is learning the lute, but mostly he writes. I make potions. We read. It’s all very sedate in Amell mansion. Home is where you go to be boring, after all.”

“Is that what it is?” Fenris asked with an amused chuckle. “I suppose that sounds about right.”

“What are you doing?” Anders asked, sneering at his glass as if it was filled with blood. “What’s this about? Did you come to gloat? To rub my nose in it?”

“No,” said Fenris while Hawke tried to swallow her mouthful of wine, suddenly sour on her tongue. “This was never a contest. You and Hawke were close before I even knew I wanted this, you could have—”

“Well, if I was a layabout like you with no other goals or obligations--”

“Six years! You could have found half an hour here and there! After I left, I thought you’d replace me in a heartbeat…”

“Could we not?” Hawke said and they all sat quietly for a moment, near palpably seething, and then lifted their glasses to gulp more wine almost at the same time.

“I don’t want to fight,” Fenris said. “We’re both in Hawke’s life, and we’re both here to stay. We shouldn’t make her choose, that’s the least we owe her. I’m willing to learn what is it she treasures about you. I trust her judgement that there’s something.”

“Wow,” Anders said. “That is… unexpectedly civil, coming from you.”

“See, I knew you’d make me regret it as soon as I said it!”

“Well, so much for your good intentions and grand speeches, if all it takes--”

“I swear to Maker,” Hawke said and before she could follow through with an elaborate oath she didn’t even have ready yet, they interrupted her.

“I apologise,” Fenris said, which wasn’t unusual for him, but Anders spoke at the same time.

“I’m sorry, Hawke. Sorry, Fenris. Life is fleeting, and we should all enjoy what little peace we can have. Who knows what tomorrow will bring.”

Hawke leaned over and kissed him on the temple, and Fenris nodded and lifted his glass.

“To peace, then. Anders, I’ve been meaning to ask, do they teach Tevene in the Circles? The majority of the magic books must be written in it, although it would also stand to reason if the Andrastian Chantry doesn’t allow the study of those…”

“They do, both Tevene and Old Elvhen. Though, if you want to call on my expertise, I’m beyond rusty.”

“I would have liked to learn to read in my first language as well. What history books I could find in Hawke’s library and on Kirkwall’s market stalls don’t answer even half of my question. They all contradict Shartain’s book, for one.”

“That’s because they’re all Chantry-approved,” Hawke supplied.

“I can just about read potion manuals and spell books,” Anders said. “But I could teach you the script, I suppose. I’ll come in an hour before the next game, if you like, and we’ll try.”

“Do I need to be there so that doesn’t end in a murder?” Hawke asked tiredly.

“Please, Hawke, we spend plenty of time together,” Fenris said. “Anders sees to all my ills, we play cards weekly, and whenever he’s too embarrassed to tell you or Varric about yet another stupid gambling debt he got himself into, guess who gets to scare off the loan sharks?”

“We actually get along better when you’re not there,” Anders said.

“So what, do I bring out the worst in you?”

“No,” he said with a smile. “No, the opposite, of course.”

Later, in her room, Fenris washed his feet in the small basin they fished out from under he wardrobe. Hawke sat him down on her bed, pulled his feet out of clouded soapy water into her lap and towelled them off. She gently tapped the lyrium dots, and his long toes curled and trembled.

“Too weird?” she asked.

“I could get used to it.”

She pushed him onto the bed and unfastened his shirt, and brushed a few light kisses over his chest, just warming him up.

“Hawke, I… I have to apologise,” he said. “I’ve not slept last night, and that always worsens the pain. I can perform, but I’m not… I’d rather make tonight about your pleasure, if you don’t mind. I’m sorry if I shouldn’t have come when I’m less than--”

She caught his restless hands and silenced him with a long, soft kiss, tasting wine in his mouth.

“Shh, it’s fine. I’m still feeling well fucked,” she said. “Wouldn’t mind catching up on sleep. I could get you a potion, for the pain?”

“It’s not bad enough to keep me awake. I’d rather not make a habit of dosing myself.”

“You should talk to Anders about it.”

“I have. It’s fine, Hawke, I just need to rest.”

They shed their clothes and shuffled under the blankets, and Hawke draped herself over his back and wound her arms around him. She thought she could almost feel the pain coiled in the every line of his markings: there was a difference to him, a stiffness in his muscles, knots in his back. Even his skin felt different, rougher under her lips.

But then, as she held him, little by little he seemed to relax and melt deeper into her embrace. Soon he arched his back against her breasts, hooked his ankle around hers, dragged her hand to his lips and softly nibbled at her fingers.

“Do you need to be up early?” he asked.

“No,” she said, smiling against the back of his neck. “I’m the Champion. I can do what I want.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy International Women's day! Fellow women, thank you for being awesome! Everyone else, you're welcome!


	22. The Champion's Speech

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke finds out about the looming Annulment and makes an overly ambitious plan to prevent it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The summary really should be "Hawke argues with blond people". Set before "Justice" quest. You can learn about the Annulment in the very beginning of Act 3 if you've spared Ser Karras during "Act of Mercy" quest, which, by the way, was a mistake. Note to self, don't spare Ser Karras going forward.

Hawke pushed past the Tranquil secretary and barged right into Meredith office. No knocking - she wasn’t going to stand in the hallway waiting for permission to enter, and she’d love to catch that righteous prig doing something untoward, like napping on the job, or reading a smutty book, or, hell, even picking her nose. Hawke would settle for the smallest joy.

Meredith was sat at her desk in full armour, cross-checking a pile of bills and invoices with a giant ledger. That looked like the treasurer’s job, but then, Meredith was just the type to stick her nose into everything, to second-guess and double-check everything her people did, not just the accounts. Hawke would bet she inspected how well her templars polished their boots and washed behind their ears.

She calmly lifted her eyes from the papers as Hawke marched toward her desk. A few templars, the ones who’d told Hawke she couldn’t come in, were in the doorway, and one of them was still trying to plug his bleeding nose, but they didn’t dare cross the threshold, as if there was a magical barrier that only Hawke could pass through.

“Knight-Commander,” one of them said, and Meredith silenced him with the gesture.

“The Champion is welcome, of course, since she’s here already,” she said. “But this is a breach of security, and you know what that means for those responsible. Leave, I’ll deal with you later.”

She waited until the templars shut the door behind them and turned her bright eyes on Hawke.

“What can I do for you, Champion?”

“I hope you can ease my mind,” Hawke said. She was shaky with rage, and there was a bitter tang of bile in her mouth. “Ser Karras just told me you’ve sent to Val Royeaux for the Right of Annulment.”

Ser Karras was a liar, Hawke knew that. He’d told her he’d not been raping the Starkhaven boy, had denied it vehemently. When Hawke promised she’d rip his balls off if he ever touched a mage again and will cut out his heart if Alain ended up Tranquil, Karras said he wasn’t afraid of some jumped-up Fereldan peasant. That was another lie. He’d left Alain be, and hadn’t made any threats toward Bethany, but, of course, he didn’t forget. So this too could have been a lie, a cruel joke, but Hawke would let him off easy if only this turned out to be nothing.

“I did,” Meredith said, and it took all Hawke’s willpower not to fly right at her and punch her in the mouth. “But it’s not what you think. Please, calm down and I will explain.”

“I think I’m as calm as anyone whose sister was just condemned to death.”

“I didn’t forget about Bethany, or the many services you’ve done to the City. It has always been my intention to spare her, and all others I truly know are innocent. Once the Annulment was inevitable, I was going to transfer her to Ostwick, or Kinloch - it’s a longer journey, but she might like being back in Ferelden…”

“Was that supposed to mollify me? There are still thousands of mages here, and you’re talking about killing them all!”

“Only the guilty. Once I have the Right, I won’t evoke it immediately. Not without separating wheat from the chaff. I’m only asking the Divine for the power to act when I need to. If I thought cleansing this place was already the only option, I’d have done it even without the Chantry’s blessing. I want to save innocent lives as much as you do, and I’d pay any price for that.”

“The guilty? What are they guilty of? Being born?”

“You don’t know,” Meredith said, still very patient, as if talking to a child. “You can’t possibly know what it’s like to look in their faces every day and know each one of the thousands is a seed of horrific destruction. The Circle is harder to control with every day. A rebellion is brewing, and once the fighting breaks out, who can predict how many mages will turn to demons? How many of them have formed a pact in their dreams already, and are just waiting for the right moment to let the evil into their bodies and into our world? If I am to spare any at all, I need to control the battle. I need to be able to end it before it begins. I need you to understand this and stand with me when it happens.”

“Why the Divine, though? Elthina has the same power. Has she rejected your request already?”

“Of course she did,” Meredith tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and gave Hawke a surprisingly impish smile. “I only asked her as a formality. She’s an old woman, and this seat of power is all she ever knew. The more unrest there is the more people cling to her skirts for comfort, the more they donate, as if they can bribe the Maker into keeping them safe. Oh, how she misses the Qunari, that was such a nice and tidy menace for her to exploit. Now, instead of purging the maleficarum, Elthina wants to use them too. She wants to be worshipped for playing the peacemaker, as if there can be peace between men and monsters. She’d see us all torn apart by demons before she gives that up. I’m only trying to take this decision out of the hands of the senile, power-mad coward.”

Hawke stood back and tried to think, to form her next argument, but her mind seemed to have been shocked empty. There was just one phrase endlessly rattling about in there, a scribble someone had left on her papers back in the mansion, probably Anders, though Aveline was a close next on her suspect list: Meredith is a loony. Meredith is a loony.

“I know what you feel, I do,” Meredith said. “I loved my sister as much as you love yours. I helped my parents hide her. And then I watched the thing she unleashed tear them to bloody chunks. You’ll see I’m right, deep down you agree already. You never married, never had children, just like me, and I know why. It’s because we both feel the poison of magic in our blood, and we won’t let it spread.”

Hawke considered the distance between them, the proximity of Meredith’s sheathed sword, and wondered if she could assassinate the Knight-Commander right here and now. She was quick enough to make a sudden attack count, armour or not. All she needed was a deep cut that would make Meredith bleed out before the templars dragged a healer here.

But Meredith would be instantly replaced. Likely by Cullen, who didn’t think Tranquillity was used widely enough. Cullen, who thought they were losing ground whenever a mage child was born. If the Divine would allow the Annulment, Cullen would grab that writ with both hands and carry it out. And Hawke would most likely be dead as soon as she struck Meredith down, or, if she’d somehow carve an escape through all of the Gallows’ templars, she’d be on the run, and who’d save Bethany then?

“You gave me a lot to think about,” she said and left with a polite bow.

She was half way through the courtyard when Cullen caught up with her.

“Champion,” he panted, and Hawke wondered if Meredith finally decided to play it safe and get rid of her. She had an easy excuse now: Hawke had punched her way to Meredith’s office, if full view of half the Gallows. People in the Alienage or Darktown had been killed on the spot for as much as menacing a templar.

Hawke could make a dash for the docks. If she made it to Kirkwall proper, to her home turf, to her friends, she’d have a fighting chance. The templars in the courtyard didn’t carry bows, but there could be some archers up on the wall…

“I heard you’ve not yet chosen a companion for the assembly flower dance,” Cullen said and have her a boyish, hopeful grin.

“Oh?” Hawke asked, gritting her teeth. The relief came and went so rapidly she could barely feel it, and now the full force of her fear was pouring out as annoyance. “Please, do tell me where you’ve heard that fascinating bit of news from.”

“Your elf friend. The one with the, the white-haired one? He said you were going alone. I’m, uh, I’m not a noble, of course, but I’m… I’ve always had utmost respect for you, and… I know we don’t know each other that well, but…”

Why do you keep talking to him, Bethany had asked her once. That was back before the Deep Roads, when they still ran whatever odd jobs came their way and saved every copper, with only Varric and Aveline to back them up. Why do you talk to him, sis, don’t you see. He’s always watching you as it is. Don’t attract his attention, don’t encourage him.

Hawke had ignored that. She’d thought making friends with templars would pay off. She’d not been worried: Cullen was just a kid, younger than her by at least six years. Sure, Varric, Isabela and Anders were older than her by about that much and that never had mattered, but Cullen, despite the terrible power he was entrusted with, had a knack for looking like a confused infant.

“Child,” Hawke said wearily, just as she realised, with an unpleasant jolt, that Cullen had to be twenty six by now, older than she was when she’d first met him. “No. He’s not my friend, he’s my lover. We’re fucking. We have sweaty elven style sex in my mansion all the time. As for the dance, I’m taking my business partner, for schmoozing opportunities.”

“Ah.” Cullen’s pale skin flushed brightly and he began rubbing his neck, as if he was suddenly sweating into his armour. “Then why did he say…”

“I don’t know, because he’s a dick and he’s not pranked me this week yet? I’m happy to pretend this never happened.”

“Of course, I apologise, I didn’t realise,” Cullen babbled, and then, as she was about to head on to the docks: “Oh, well, there’s another thing I wanted to ask. Since you’re, um… Are you in touch with your cousin? Warden Amell? Is she well?”

“Oh yeah, she mentioned you,” Hawke said, and Cullen’s blush turned near purple.

“She did? She remembers?”

“You know,” Hawke said, watching his eyes glaze over. Now his unfailing interest in her made a new kind of sense. “I’ve not actually met her. Do we look alike?”

Cullen nodded, and for a moment Hawke wanted to kneel before the nearest image of Andraste and praise the Maker for not giving Bethany those Amell looks. Not that Cullen seemed to be like Karras or Alric, but, well. Working side by side with unrepentant rapists was going to leave some kind of mark eventually.

“The Hero of Ferelden thinks you’ve done more for the safety of Thedas than any other templar currently alive,” she said.

“Really?”

“Yeah, you could have killed her during her Harrowing. Then, with no meddling mage to stop the Blight, we’d now be ass-deep in darkspawn. So, well done and thank you.”

She patted his metal-clad shoulder and briskly walked away.

 

Anders returned from the clinic at the usual time, near dusk. His face, grey with exhaustion, lit up at the sight of her as always, and she nearly decided against telling him the news.

When she did, he slumped into a chair as if his spine had suddenly gave out. A spray of blue sparks flew over his hands and flickered out, as if even Justice had no strength left to rage and fight.

“We can stop this yet,” she said. “You were right. Arranging those escapes, taking out the worst templars - that only made Meredith angrier. We need to aim at the root of this. I will get the assembly together and we will petition the Divine--”

“No need, the Divine won’t grant the Annulment,” Anders said. “It’s unthinkable, she won’t. Not like this, on just a templar’s word.”

“I agree. Not this soon into her term, right?” Hawke said, even though she wasn’t so sure. There had been about two Annulments per age so far, according to history books. This was year thirty-seven, so they were about due for the first one.

“No, she’s chosen for her piety, she’s a holy woman, she wouldn’t. But if Meredith is set on this, she’ll find the way. She’ll get some proof the Gallows Circle is irredeemable. She’ll plant evidence, and claim there was no time to ask for dispensation, and she’ll kill them all. And she’ll hold their death as proof that all mages are corruptible, and that more deaths are needed.”

“Yes, you’re right. So my petition will be to remove her.”

“I have already petitioned for that,” he muttered into his hands. “Both the Grand Cleric and the Divine, I’ve sent a letter a month for years and years…”

She hugged him and held him close, and he didn’t reach for her in return, never dropped his hands from his face.

“I know. It shouldn’t matter who the petition was from,” she said, awkwardly stroking his sweat-damp hair. “But it matters, I’m sorry, sweetheart, it does. Once all the nobles of Kirkwall throw their weight behind it - and they will, I’ll fucking make them - things will change.”

She let go of him, pushed the desk and an armchair aside to clear some space in front of him and stood there, hands on her hips.

“I’ve been composing my speech for the next assembly meeting. You’ll be my first audience. Interrupt me whenever, ask the worst questions, because they will. I need it to be good.”

She needlessly cleared her throat, rocked on her toes and back to her heels, like the best speakers always did, and began:

“People of Kirkwall, I say it’s time we took our city back. Ser Stannard had been keeping our Viscount seat empty for three years, through intimidation and open threats. Now she wants to kill every mage in the Gallows. I shudder to think what might be next for us.”

“Next? The Annulment isn’t enough?” Anders asked. “The murder of thousands is only a precursor to the real unpleasantness?”

“Yeah, I’ll be talking to nobles, they’re not a caring lot. I need to make them fear for their own pampered hides. I will talk about the mages, about Bethany and my cousins. I’ll stare into the face of everyone who has family in the Gallows. I need a full list, I only know a dozen, it’s not something the nobles talk about. But first I have to grab everyone’s attention.”

She stood up straighter, shook out her arms to loosen up and ploughed on.

She wasn’t a great orator by any means. She’d only given two speeches to the assembly so far: a few words of gratitude for honouring her with the title, first time she showed up at a meetings, and then a passionate fund-raising appeal last year, for plumbing repairs when the rusted pipes began to leak. She’d spent days preparing it and spoke for half an hour, citing liberally from _Kirkwall: The City of Chains_ and _An Alchemical Primer of Metallurgy._ The collection was a success, though the stinky puddles licking at the Hightown stairs probably had swayed her audience more than her words.

“What’s so bad about not having a Viscount, you ask? The tax collectors are more amenable, right? Well, maybe you’ve saved a few coins there, but now, without proper spending and upkeep, the city is fucking crumbling. It’s been a shithole when I first came here, and it’s not looking or smelling any prettier. We’ll have to turn out our pockets to pay for it all anyway, or we can sit in our own shit while the roads collapse and the bandits get bolder. But we’re all equals now, nobody rules us or sits above us, right? Wrong. We’re all under Meredith’s thumb. And let’s all face it. If she wouldn’t allow us to have a proper government, of our own people, then that’s an act of war. That’s as good as an occupation.”

She held a dramatic pause. Anders had his arms crossed on his chest, and he was frowning sceptically.

“Occupation? Hawke, Meredith is from Kirkwall. She’s not some foreign force.”

“She is! She works for the Chantry! It’s a covert Orlesian invasion!”

“What? What does Orlais have to do with this? The Chantry is independent. It serves the Maker.”

“Great question, thank you, noble friends.” Hawke nodded happily. “But unless you think one hundred thirty two years of freedom from Orlesian tyranny is about enough and you’d like to be a colony again, you better wake up. The Chantry is an arm of Orlais. The only reason we bow to Meredith’s whims is because she had the might of the Empire behind her. It’s only been sixteen years since she and the Grand Cleric Elthina removed Viscount Perrin Threnhold from office and put up late Dumar as their puppet. And what was Perrin’s chief crime? Charging Orlesian ships passage fees! The templars at the Gallows outnumber our City Guard, more so now that we can barely pay its upkeep. They’re an Orlesian army sat right on our doorstep. Shall I tell you a few stories from the time Orlais took Ferelden? What was done to our nobility then?”

“Hawke, no. Nobody would believe this Orlesian conspiracy plot.”

“Oh, they will. Power, money and pride, that’s what they care about. Besides, it’s all true.”

She’d spent her childhood clinging to old veterans, listening to their stories of past glory. She could recite the military history of Ferelden in Blessed and Dragon ages by heart, and finally that was going to be of use.

“When Orlais invaded Ferelden, Orlesian troops had mages with them,” Hawke said. “For all I know, every half-decent mage from all three Orlesian circles was there. The Chantry allowed that. Where were our, Fereldan mages? The only ones who could understand, counter and dispel Orlesian magic? Our healers, who could turn the course of any battle? The Chantry kept them locked up. And they stayed locked up through the whole occupation, while our people bled and died, while King Maric scraped up enough peasants and ruffians to win our country back. The Circle system had given Orlais an enormous advantage in every war. Every Mother and Sister is, essentially, an Orlesian agent. Every templar is an Orlesian soldier. They’re everywhere, ready to be rallied, whenever Orlais decides to push forward.”

“That’s not what the Chantry is!” 

“This definitely isn’t what the Chantry should be. It shouldn’t have authority above the legitimate government. We’re going to remove Meredith, replace her with Thrask and elect a Viscount who will have full oversight on how the Gallows operates. The next part of my speech is about how, if our petition to do this peacefully is ignored, we’ll ally with King Alistair. My cousin - you, know, the Hero of Ferelden? I’m surprised you’ve not met her in your Warden days.”

“I’m sure if your cousin was there she wouldn’t get rid of my cat or let the templars… nevermind. She’s the Hero of Ferelden, and I was a grunt, a nothing. I’d rather you not mention me or my desertion in your letters to her. But I know of her, of course.”

“Yes, well, they’re really close, and he promised her to let the Kinloch Hold mages rule themselves. The Chantry wouldn’t listen to his pleas to withdraw the templars. Obviously, he’s not happy about it. He was raised by the Chantry, and he has no love for them. He also doesn’t like Meredith much, because, well.”

“Because he met her.”

“Exactly. Imagine if Ferelden supported our every move. Imagine if we had a Viscount Alistair would endorse. I know Starkhaven is a mess right now, but we can make it our mess. We can pull strings in Ostwick, too. And if we can ally with Nevarra…”

“To do what?” he interrupted, looking at her with darkened eyes, worried, so thin and beaky, bird-like.

“We have to start squeezing the Chantry back to Orlais. Putting pressure as a united front. The Chantry says the mages are dangerous, so let’s remind the powers of Thedas what that means. Let them see what the Chantry - the Orlais - is doing. They’re taking our most dangerous people, our future healers and battlemages, shutting them into those towers and raising them how they see fit, loyal to Orlais, no doubt. The Circles must be taken back, the templars replaced with the people loyal to the local rulers, and if that can’t be done through diplomacy…”

“Hawke,” he said softly. “You’re talking about turning people against the Chantry.”

“It’s about taking the power away from zealots.”

“Look, I agree that the Kirkwall Chantry has fallen to sloth. There’s some real malice there, as well. But it’s important to draw the line. It’s the people who have failed us, not the faith. Otherwise you’d be asking the faithful to turn on the Maker himself.”

“I’m sure a clever theological argument can be made around this, but it’s not like the Maker is fucking real, so…”

“You don’t believe?”

She believed in plenty of things. In herself, of course. Her family would have died back in Lothering if she’d indulged in even a moment of self-doubt. She believed in Anders, his heart, his strength and passion. She believed that whatever it was between her and Fenris, even though they were both reluctant to name and define it, was the truest thing she’d ever felt. She believed that Varric and Aveline would never let her down, and Merrill and Isabela would always understand and forgive, and that her and Bethany would always be close, even if they wouldn’t share a life. These were all real, solid, precious things, more than enough to build a life on, and there was no need to waste faith and love on the Maker who’d abandoned her like a neglectful father, if he even existed in the first place. 

But, of course, there were no stone houses and hordes of clergy to give her beliefs any credence. She couldn’t say any of it out loud without sounding like a naive, petulant child.

“In what? That my family is cursed with sin?” she said instead. “That any Chantry hen and idiot templar know better than me what mages are and what should happen to them? No!”

“That’s not all the Chant teaches, and you know that!”

“Not everyone is into ponderous verse, so no. I don’t know the Chant and I don’t care to.”

He stepped back, his face twisted in something near horror, as if she was transforming into a Pride demon before his eyes.

“You’d wage war on faith even if you don’t know what it’s about? What it means to the faithful? That’s beyond arrogance, that’s--”

“Religion is poison! It’s a drug, they control you with it, just like they keep the templars on the leach of lyrium addiction!”

“You know nothing about it. If you don’t believe, you can’t begin to understand.”

“Do I need to know the Chant to see how malignant the Chantry is? I want us all to be free!”

“And yet, in that picture you’re painting, even without the Chantry, the Circles still stand! The mages are still rounded up into them like cattle! Used in wars, like tools, like weapons!”

“It’s rhetoric! Yes, sure, there has to be a period of transition, people are afraid of mages. There need to be safe places--”

He threw his hands up in wordless frustration and headed downstairs.

“Where are you going - wait--” she tried, rushing after him.

“I’m going to pray,” he said over his shoulder and slammed the door behind him.

Hawke wandered back into the library and began gathering references for her speech. _Tales of the Destruction of Thedas_ , by Brother Genitivi, always a good source for a bloody tale from the Chantry’s history. Of course, _Orlesian Legacy: How Institutions of the Oppressors Linger_ , by Michel Lafaille. She dumped the tomes on her desk and scanned shelves for anything else that looked useful.

It was important to get this right and make a plan Anders agreed with. She had to consult other mages, too. She could write to the ones they’d helped escape, see what their take on this would be…

Though, the mages of the Gallows probably didn’t have that long. If Anders was right about Meredith…

The front door creaked again, and she ran out to the foyer, glad that he returned, steeling herself for a new argument.

But it was Fenris, and she was cowardly relieved to see him.

“I just saw Anders outside,” Fenris said after they shared a kiss. “He seemed more ruffled than usual.”

“We had a fight. No big deal. We live together, of course we’re going to fight sometimes. Now I’m going to have a fight with you. What the hell, Fenris? Why did you sic Cullen on me?”

“You don’t like him? He’s young, handsome, virile, and never had a mage in his family as far as he knows. He’d be--”

“No!”

“I’m sorry if I overstepped, I just thought…”

They had danced around this conversation ever since they got back together. Fenris hated the idea that she put her life on hold because of him, because he didn’t want to be the father. She couldn’t quite explain the real reason to him: that low simmer of fear the thought of having a child had always given her, and the strange, ever growing feeling that things in Kirkwall were pulling toward some inescapable breaking point.

Perhaps this threat of Annulment had been exactly that, and once they fixed it, it’d be different. Now wasn’t the right time.

“Please don’t help me with this, all right? Just… come here.”

She pressed him into the couch and they kissed until she felt lighter, languid and alive and less like she had a rock to push uphill, like Anders had once quipped.

“Why do you believe in the Maker?” she asked then. Fenris curled against her and shrugged.

“I don’t remember. Perhaps Tevinter slaves are brought up to believe. Someone must have taught me an Imperial version of the Chant, the one that says suicide is a sin. Makes sense, slaves would be a waste of money otherwise. It’s not in the canonical Andrastian texts, I checked.”

“Why were you researching that?” she asked, trying to sound casual, cringing with fear inside.

“Curiosity. Anders was surprised when I mentioned it, and I wondered why. He knows the Chant well, he’s easily the most pious of us all. If you have questions, he’s probably better…”

“That’s sort of why we fought. So you’ve read the Chant?”

“Of course. Haven’t you? I’m surprised you don’t know it by heart, Bethany could cite it at length…”

“That’s Bethany,” Hawke said and tried to think back to the innumerable services she’d had to endure and remember at least the general idea of what it all was about. The verses went right over her head when she was a child, and later she learnt to block it all out, to pull away into daydreams.

“You own a copy,” Fenris said and kissed her when she groaned. “Unabridged and illustrated. I could read it to you, if you like?”

She’d happily listen to him read out her accounts book. He fetched the volume and they cuddled up on the couch together, with the heavy book propped on her legs for him to read over her shoulder.

“Where do we even start?” she asked. “It’s not a proper story, is it? It’s just verses.”

“We’ll start from the beginning,” He leafed to the middle of the volume. “Canticle of Threnodies. The creation of everything, and the first wars.”

She tipped her head against his shoulder and listened, his smooth, deep voice making warmth pool in her loins. He read about the Maker weaving the world from his words and hopes, from the waters of the Fade, and about the Golden City, and the spirits that shone with golden light in the heart of it.

“…at last did the Maker from the living world make men,” Fenris read. Hawke assumed that ‘men’ were either humans or all the mortal races except for dwarves. She already knew that the Chantry didn’t count the dwarves among the Maker’s children and considered them to have been spontaneously extruded out of rocks. She wasn’t yet sure where the elves and kossith fit in.

“Immutable, as the substance of the earth. With souls made of dream and idea, hope and fear, endless possibilities.”

He read smoothly, not stumbling even on the longest words, though perhaps he knew that part by heart. She nestled between his thighs and tried to open her mind to the words, to the ideas and emotions that had such sway over her friends. To all the endless possibilities.

“Then the Maker said - to you, my second-born, I grant this gift: in your heart shall burn an unquenchable flame, all-consuming, and never satisfied.”

“Maker is so weirdly cruel. Why would he do that to us?”

Fenris curled his hand inside her robe, over the left side of her chest, and softly chuckled into her hair.

“It is my favourite thing about you,” he said.

“My left boob?”

“That bright flame in your heart. And then, sure, your left - no, both your breasts, let’s be fair to them. And then that smile you have, that looks like the clouds have parted and everything will be all right from now on.”

She put her hand over his, silently, trapping his palm against her heart. He cupped her breast and carried on, gently stroking in rhythm with the sacred words:

“From the Fade I crafted you. And to the Fade you shall return…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not long after Anders has a full blown (cough) crisis of faith and Hawke ends up is in the sewers picking up petrified poop for a non-existent Tevinter potion. Next chapter will be set after that.


	23. Night Terrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders can't sleep. Hawke and Fenris attempt to console him.

Hawke winced awake in the dark, and the first thing she noticed was the smell.

It was back. She’d spent most of the night in the tub, she had poor Sandal change the water four times. After the second rinse she’d sent Orana to the markets to pick up the stinkiest, floweriest Orlesian soap she could find. Hawke had rubbed her skin until it was too raw to touch, had seriously considered shaving her head, and eventually got rid of the stench, but now it had returned. The unforgettable whiff of petrified shit from the very depth of the Kirwall sewers filled her bedroom, overlaying the cloying soap perfume and the faint, pleasant dog smell coming from Bear. The smell must have been inside her, seeped into her lungs, and how it was coming out with sweat, exuded from her every pore. She had a macabre mind flash of ripping her own skin off like a soiled shirt, and that only made her gag harder.

Fenris’ hand was on her shoulder. Fenris was here, smelling all this, and now she almost regretted inviting him over last night.

“What’s that?” he whispered.

“Sela petrae, I told you,” she mumbled, wondering if her breath stank too. “For Anders, for the potion… Fucking Orlesians, that soap was supposed to help.”

“Not that. Listen.”

There were short, wet gasps coming from the window - no, from the other room. She’d left her window open - she’d choke to death on the smell of Orlesian orchids otherwise - and Anders must have done the same with his, and those windows were just two feet apart on the wall.

“He’s having a nightmare,” she said, and just then Anders began to moan loudly, as if fighting unbearable, ever-increasing pain, and it really wasn’t ambiguous any more.

“You can here him in here - he can hear us?”

“That’s why we don’t fuck with the window open.”

Anders was talking now, a stream of unintelligible slurred babble that sounded like desperate begging.

“Is this normal for him, or… He sounds like he’s getting killed!”

“That’s probably what the dream is,” she agreed. Anders was moaning again, thrashing weakly against the bed. She could hear his limbs thump against the mattress; he quieted a little after each one, but the strangled half-screams began again soon.

She’d not heard him having a nightmare since the Deep Roads. Maybe he didn’t usually have them with no darkspawn nearby, or maybe he was like this every night, choking on his own screams, and she slept soundly through all of that with her window shut. She would rush over to wake and hold him, but…

“I can’t go into his room,” she said.

Anders wouldn’t mind, she was sure, but this was her house, and it had never truly become his home. He’d never settled in even in the superficial way Gamlen had, always hovered at the edges, as if wondering if he’d overstayed his welcome. He needed at least a small haven where he could count on having absolute privacy, from her in the first place.

Fenris nodded as if he understood, slid off the bed and reached for his clothes.

“I’ll go.”

Anders’ bed creaked, and the moans abruptly cut off. For a moment all they heard were his shuddering breaths and the rustle of bedclothes. Then there was a soft scrape as he picked his water cup up from the bedside table, long gulping noises and a clank when he set it back down.

He was awake, it was over. Hawke nodded at the window, and Fenris soundlessly stepped to it and already had his hand on the frame when a new kind of noise came and froze him on the spot.

There were a few quiet sobs first, that almost made Hawke think Anders had already fallen asleep again, and again was dragged into a Warden nightmare. But that abruptly turned into gasping, desperate, uncontrollable weeping, quick and violent like a flood. The sounds were muffled, strained, as if he was crying with his teeth clenched against whatever pain tore at him, as if he was stifling his cries with his fists.

Fenris’ fingers hovered near the creaky frame. His glowing eyes were mortified, and that was about how Hawke felt, too.

They could cower in silence and let him cry himself back to sleep in dignity. Or they could call out to him and try to offer him comfort, and probably embarrass him half to death instead, or…

But then Bear, her wonderful, clever girl, did the exact thing she’d always done whenever the twins had cried like that, as if the world was ending. She threw her head back and let out a howl, long and loud enough to wake half of Hightown.

Anders went instantly quiet. Hawke exchanged another awkward glance with Fenris and said, in a tone so false it make herself cringe, “Bear, what is it? Why did you wake us, silly girl?”

Bear gave her a betrayed look, jumped off the bed and moved to her cushion in the corner.

“We better check the house for intruders.” Fenris shrugged on his clothes and stomped to the door, as noisily as his bare feet allowed. “I’ll start upstairs.”

“I’ll check the kitchen. Anders? Did she wake you?”

There was a moment’s silence.

“Yes,” Anders said finally, in a voice still not quite his own. “It’s fine.” And then, with an attempt at cheer, “No intruders here!”

“I’m going to make some sandwiches, do you want a sandwich?”

“No, I don’t want a sandwich, Hawke, it’s the middle of the night,” he said with just a hint of irritation. Fenris rolled his eyes and disappeared into the hallway.

“Well, I’ll be in the kitchen,” Hawke said and patted the wall between them in lieu of anything better. “In case you do.”

She raided Orana’s meticulously organised pantry and piled a plate high with yesterday’s bread, cheeses and cold cuts. Then she brewed a pot of tea and sat at the table, rubbing Bear’s neck and ears by the way of apology, until Fenris joined her.

“He’s still sulking in his room,” he reported and devoured a sandwich in three hearty bites. “I don’t think he’s gone back to bed. Are you going to talk to him?”

“If he wants to. It’s his home, if he wants to be alone or have a good cry in peace, this is the place to do it.”

Fenris arched an eyebrow and took another sandwich.

“Don’t you wonder what’s causing this?”

“Sometimes people get sad,” she said curtly. “All his Mage Underground friends are dead, some had been tortured to death. Don’t you think he might shed a few tears for them? And what happened with Grace really shook him up. And the threat of Annulment--”

“I think it’s his demon tearing at him.”

“He’s not a--”

“Spirit, then. He’s had it for seven years. How long can he possibly contain and control it? Eventually it must erode his will and take over.”

“It’s not like that. They’re friends, they want the same thing.”

“And yet you were eager to help separate them.”

Hawke glumly stared at the table. She could still smell sela petrae, now mingled with the fresh, yeasty aroma of Orana’s rosemary bread rising in the wooden bowl by the window. She wondered if she was imagining it by now, if the phantom stink would hang around her forever, indelible and persistent like pain from a missing limb.

“Only because I thought that’s what they wanted.”

“He never said he didn’t want to be free. Only that he lied about having the recipe to purge the spirit. Have you figured out what he did with those ingredients he made you gather?”

“He didn’t say, and I won’t keep asking.” The short-lived burst of nervous energy from being woken in the night was spent by now, and Hawke was tired, sleepy and cranky, ready to snap at him.

“No, but you’re an alchemist and a busybody. I’m sure you have an idea or two.”

She was a busybody, that was true. She’d told Anders she trusted him and would support him, no questions, no reservations. Then she’d gathered all her herbalism and alchemy manuals from the library and flipped through them for the rest of the evening, even took all but the rarest volumes to the bath with her. They were still in her bedroom, weighed under her weapons chest in an attempt to straighten out the pages warped by steam. Fenris must have spotted them there. Or maybe he really knew her that well by now.

“There’s nothing in any of my tomes that required both those ingredients. No luck looking at their separate uses, either. Drakestone goes into everything, from laxatives to pimple creams, there’s no way to narrow it down. And I found only two recipes that call for sela petrae. One is for inducing rapid rot in tree stumps so they could be easily removed. That’s probably not it. And the other is… also not likely.”

“Well, what is the other one for?”

“For curbing lustful passions. Don’t laugh, are you a child? I said it wasn’t it!”

“I don’t know, it could be,” Fenris drawled, grinning, and leaned over to nibble on her ear. “Imagine how trying it must be for him to live here with you. See you every day, and never touch. This house is permeated with your presence and your scent, I get hard the moment I’m through the door. On my way here, even.”

“You realise you’re saying I stink, right? I’m self-conscious right now, I smell like a hurlock taking a dump in an Orlesian brothel.”

“You do not. Oh, well, if he’s not trying to conquer his raging desires, he must be planning to set rot to Elthina’s favourite chair. That’ll show her.”

“One of the ingredients could be just to throw me off, because he knew I’d be snooping,” Hawke admitted. “I hate to think it was the stinky one, but… Sela petrae is, generally, quite useless.”

“It’s highly valued by Qunari. I’ve seen them mine it on Seheron and ship it off under heavy guard. Come to think of it, that’s why they might have wanted Seheron, for its sela petrae deposits. But I couldn’t tell you what they use it for. In their indoctrinations, perhaps? A drug, to convert the unwilling?”

“Anders wouldn’t do anything like that. That’s too close to blood magic for his taste.”

“He’d been shoving that manifesto down everyone’s throat for years. If he could distill it into a potion, he would.”

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. Fatigue was settling in her joints now, the beginning of a headache tightening at her temples. They’d only slept for a couple of hours. They had to go back to bed, get more rest. They were all too old for chattering the nights away. If Anders wanted to talk, he’d sought her out by now.

“He’s right, though,” Fenris said after a short silence. “There really might be such magics in Tevinter.”

“Not that it does us any good.”

“Why not? The journey is only a few weeks by boat. The Circles there are open to public, ready take your money in exchange for any spell or potion you need. For the right price, or even just for glory, someone there will find a way to save him. Anders could be cured in a month.”

Hawke leaned back in her chair, considering this. She’d hated the idea of separating Anders from Justice when he first suggested it. Justice was his friend, his protector and constant companion, and losing him could be like losing a part of the family, a chunk of himself. But if Anders really wanted to do this he’d pull through, of course. He’d survived the Circle and the solitary, escaped time after time, unbowed, and still kept his kindness somehow, and that was all before Justice.

“Talk to him,” Fenris said. “Give him a hope, see if he doesn’t reach for it.”

“Why do you even care? You don’t like him. Just last week you said he would have sold you to Danarius for five sovereign if I’d let him.”

“And I still think he would. But you wouldn’t let him, so that’s a moot point. Whether if it’s him or his demon that sees me as a threat, he’s a friend of six years. He means something to me, even if it’s one-sided. And think of what would happen if we do nothing - what Anders might do, what might be done to him. You’d have to mourn, heal and clean up the mess once again. If it can be avoided - why not try?”

“Hm,” she said, already swept up in the fantasy of a new adventure. “I’ve never been anywhere North from here. Could be fun. Does everyone speak Trade there?”

“Not in rural areas, but that doesn’t matter. I’ll come with you. I’ll be your guide.”

“You hate Tevinter.”

“I don’t have good memories of it. But with you I might make new ones. It’s a big part of the world, a beautiful part, and I won’t have Danarius deny it to me even in death. I would see it again. The splendour of Minrathous can’t be described to someone who’ve only seen Kirkwall. And Seheron, where it’s not scarred by the war, is a warm place of dark forests and white beaches, a lush, green marvel. We could go there - just me and you. Like Aveline and Donnic did when they went to Orlais.”

“On their--”

“Yes.”

He wouldn’t say ‘honeymoon’, of course not. He’d never talk of marriage. Hawke doubted the Chantry would even agree to marry a human to an elf. She didn’t think she’d ever hear Fenris say ‘love’, either. But this was as close as he would probably venture.

“Come here,” she said, suddenly so choked up from a swell of feeling she could barely form words, and he rose from his chair, straddled her lap and gave her a long, deep kiss.

“This wasn’t supposed to be news,” he whispered, his lips still brushing hers. “I thought you knew.”

“I do,” she agreed, cradling him close. “But it’s nice to hear you… obliquely refer to it.”

She kissed him again, and he shifted closer, to rock his stiffening cock against her. She reached down to give him a light stroke through his clothes and wondered if they should chance a quick fuck right here, in the kitchens, on Orana’s impeccably scrubbed table, or dash upstairs to the safety of the bedroom.

“But we should bring Anders with us,” he suddenly said and she snorted in his face, caught by surprise.

“That’s my fantasy,” she said. “I don’t think it’s yours.”

“I mean, it might not be as simple as giving him a potion. He might have to be cured there. And he loves the idea of Tevinter, he should see the reality of it. And just because I don’t share my every fantasy with you, don’t presume I don’t have them.”

“Oh yeah?” Hawke dipped her fingers down his waistband, found the tender, wet tip of his cock and gave it a loving tickle. “What can I do to compel you to share?”

“Well… There’s a ship in the harbour right now, setting off for Tevinter in two days. I could tell you more in our cabin.”

He gave her one of his blinding smiles that always took her by surprise and dove in for another kiss, grinding into her palm.

“Fenris,” she said when they came up for air, still slowly jerking him off. “What are you doing? Are you trying to lure me away from Kirkwall?”

He stilled, staring at her with wide, expressionless eyes. His fingers, curled under the hem of her house robes, suddenly felt clammy with sweat against her skin. She wondered, not for the first time, if he was looking through her, at that hated ghost behind her shoulder. If he used to freeze like this whenever Danarius realised his far-too-clever slave was trying to manipulate him.

She stopped stroking him and gathered him into a hug, trying to warm him up against her.

“Yes,” he said finally. “It’s the only way you won’t get hurt. Hawke, your plan to oust Meredith has failed. Thrask is dead.”

“We can find someone else to replace her.”

“All the templars you could count on are dead. The mages themselves ruined any hope they might have had. They can’t be saved, Hawke. They don’t want to be saved.”

“They’re not all like that. Grace was just--”

“Yes, of course there are good people in the Gallows. Your sister is there. But she’ll be spared, as long as you keep in Meredith’s good graces. All the innocents will be spared, didn’t Meredith say so?”

“I don’t trust her promises.”

“But that’s the best hope you have. Once Meredith hears you’re agitating the nobles against her, Bethany would be doomed. And it would be for nothing. You don’t even have half the assembly’s support.”

“Not right now, but it’ll all be different after this party I’m throwing…”

“Hawke, no. Meredith won’t let you win. Not until she strips you of all you hold dear. Just… keep your head down and guard what you have. Come to Tevinter with me, away from this all. Let’s try to save Anders. Let Bethany be safe. We’ll come back once things in Kirkwall settle down, one way or another. You can’t hope to--”

“Look, last time I thought there was no hope and we were screwed, a dragon witch swooped down and saved me,” Hawke said. “It’ll be fine, you’ll see. I think Anders is feeling better lately. He’d gone to see Varric, for the first time in months. And he finally bought himself some new clothes.”

“It’s the same clothes, Hawke. He just had them dyed black. An improvement, surely, but…”

“And think about this: if you and me had kept our heads down and never stuck our necks out for each other, we wouldn’t be here. Wouldn’t be together. Sometimes it’s worth it.”

He sighed and pulled her into another kiss, a shivering, messy one.

She had her hand down his trousers, and he had her robes undone and open when Anders walked into the kitchen and backed out right away with stunning agility.

“Sorry, I didn’t--”

“It’s okay, stay,” Hawke pleaded, struggling with her clothes, and Fenris hopped off her lap and pulled up an extra chair.

“Stay,” he said too. “There’s food and company. Since we can’t sleep we might as well enjoy the night’s quiet.”

Bear sprang up from her doze under Hawke’s feet and wove around Anders’ legs until she tripped him up right into the seat. While he tried to get up she lay down again with her head pillowed on his boots. Bear had figured out his weaknesses years ago: now he was securely trapped until she chose to move.

Hawke clung to his arm, to made doubly sure to keep him in place, and buried her face in the feathers on his shoulder. It really was the same coat, she could tell now: years of overlaying familiars smells were still there, under the oily stink of dye.

“I used to hate nighttime,” Fenris said conversationally, pouring everyone’s tea in gracefully economical movements. “When I was on the run, I’d only sleep when I’d be near collapse. After that, for my first few years in Kirkwall, I could never predict if sleep would come any given night or not. When you’re awake half-way to dawn it’s as if the Veil is fading and all the demons of the Fade breathe down your neck. And somehow, just when it was the worst, Hawke would turn up at my mansion and we’d get drunk together or go out looking for trouble. Or both, in any order. What are you in the mood for?”

“Neither of those, thanks,” Anders scoffed. “I thought I’d gather the leftovers and go to Darktown. See if anyone needs anything.”

“Only bandits are out at this time,” Hawke said.

“They’re people too. They need to eat, they need healing. If I’m alone they might not attack on sight. I might be able to help.”

“Might? I’m not letting you wander into a gang war alone.”

“Nobody locks me up, love, not even you. There’s little they can do to me without Justice’s consent.”

“We’ll follow at a distance, then,” Fenris said. “If there’s to be a battle, it’ll be a shame to miss it. And the dog can use some air. To stop this… unwarranted howling.”

Bear jerked at eye toward him and growled deep in her throat, but didn’t deign to move off Anders’ legs.

Anders hadn’t tied his hair, and it obscured his face in the sparse moonlight, but Hawke thought he was smiling a little.

“Fenris,” he said. “Would you like an embroidered pillow?”

“What?”

“Nevermind. I’m sure you’ll refuse it too. You know, I regret I wasn’t a better friend to you.”

Fenris straightened up from the slouch in his chair, drew his feet together and suspiciously peered at Anders’ face. He could probably see it much better, if the glow in his eyes wasn’t just for the aesthetic effect.

“It’s not too late,” he said and offered his open hand over the table.

Instead of grabbing it into a manly handshake, Anders just took it and held it: his fingers curled into Fenris’ palm, his thumb on the lyrium-striped knuckles.

“It’s too late for a lot of things. And it’s my fault, really. Even before Justice I used to give up on people too easily. If I couldn’t charm someone right away, well, no loss, onto another. There was always someone else I could get a favour or a fuck from. You wouldn’t believe it now, but I used to be a looker.”

“What? You’re gorgeous,” Hawke said. “Fenris, tell him.”

“I will not.” Fenris sipped his tea, his right hand still in Anders’ grip. “No need to inflate his ego further.”

“In my good old days I bet I could have even seduced you,” Anders said, his voice effortlessly dropping down to a honeyed, warm low tone. “If you swing that way at all.”

“I don’t know.” Fenris’ fingers twitched, but didn’t withdraw. “Hawke was my first… lover. I suppose I might.”

“Well, see, a tragic missed opportunity. We could have had a tryst before we both fell for Hawke. I don’t presume it would have meant anything to you, but what a memory to have! But with Justice… for him everyone is an enemy, an ally or a distraction. If only we’d been more patient with you. If I’d found the right words to change even your mind about the Circles, then anyone else would be easy, then our struggle might not have been--”

“You’re ruining it, mage.”

“Don’t argue, boys, you’re both ruining it.” Hawke stifled a yawn against Anders’ shoulder. “So, are we going to kill and feed the bandits or what? If we’re going out I might as well post party invites by hand. Then if any snooty fuck tells me it got lost in the mail, I’ll know.”

“Yes, let’s go. I don’t really want to be alone right now. Thank you. I don’t deserve you.” Anders tried to smile at her, and abruptly turned away and pressed his free hand to his eyes. “I don’t deserve any of this, any of your friendship.”

Fenris carefully twisted his hand free and patted Anders’ wrist.

“I’ll go grab our armour and weapons.”

“Let me guess.” Hawke squeezed Anders into a half-hug while he was rubbing his eyes dry. “Is this about living in the lap of luxury while refugees starve and the mages are tortured?”

“It’s nothing, love. I’m just… I’m very tired.”

“We’ll all sleep better once Meredith is out of Kirkwall. This party will help, you’ll see. Once we get enough support it’ll snowball. If we charm just a few more nobles over to our side the next assembly would go much better.”

“Yes. I have every faith in you.”

“My only concern is that Meredith might make a move before I’m ready. I don’t yet know how to counter that.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, still hiding his eyes. “A backup plan is already in place.”


	24. Event of the Season

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke throws a fancy party for the Hightown nobility. Anders gets a makeover. NSFW.

Hawke’s toes felt as if an enthusiastic torturer was holding them to the fire. Her ankles ached and wobbled, but she knew she was lucky she hadn’t yet torn a tendon. The nightmare implements strapped to her feet looked like gaping maws of swamp beasts: soles unnaturally bent, the hideously long heels set at an angle like hanging jaws.

She couldn't quite explain how Jean-Luc had talked her into this. It’ll make you look like you have an ass, he’d said in a friendly, compassionate voice, and Hawke had been instantly convinced that without those shoes her ass somehow appeared missing in action.

She managed half the staircase before one of the heels caught on an edge of the step. Her sprained ankle gave, her numb feet couldn’t find purchase, and she tumbled down, head first, grazing her naked elbows, in a dramatic swish and flash of her full silk skirts.

High heeled shoes were just wrong, Hawke thought as her chin smashed into the second step from the bottom. Ugly, evil and treacherous. Definitely an Orlesian invention.

She picked herself up, careful not to tear the dress, stashed the murderous footwear behind the flower pot and limped to the kitchen barefoot.

“Orana says it’s time to sieve the soup,” she told the elves they’d hired to help with catering. “Does that sound right?”

Until today she had no idea soups and sieves ever crossed paths, but she must have relayed the instructions correctly. One of the cooks nodded and moved to the stove. The rest kept working on other dishes: stuffing prunes with walnuts, slicing hams into translucently thin slivers, pounding garlic and olives into a pungent paste. They worked with quick precision, their gaunt faces composed and focused on the task, their too-slim fingers handling the food with near reverence.

“We fed you before you started, right?” Hawke asked. “Help yourself to anything, and the leftovers are yours after we clean up.”

They all gave a short silent bow and kept working. She was going to ask if Orana had found them in the Alienage, if they already had experience with fancy cuisine, perhaps compliment their skill. But they all seemed too tense with her eyes on them, as if she’d interrupted a private conversation.

“Sandal will be back from the markets any moment,” she said. “That should be the last of it, but send him back if we’re missing anything. I’ll be in the dining room, call if you need me.”

Gamlen had already set the tables and now was arranging the flowers. The place looked as lavish as any of the Fashionable Houses drawings in the Masqued Murmurs Monthly, with all the starched table cloths, gleaming crystal and silverware and the bold colour accents from the sweat pea flowers woven into the sea of white roses that spilt across tables and windowsills.

“Uncle, you’re amazing at this!”

“After all those tutors our parents had hired I really should be,” he said proudly, weaving another rose into the garland. “Put some shoes on. At least pretend you weren’t raised in a barn.”

“Fuck shoes, I’m starting a new trend. What else do we need? Napkins? Candles?”

“Wine, niece, we need wine. That’s the only thing we need to make this a success. Well, and later on we’ll need a mop at the ready.”

“Wine,” Hawke muttered to herself and dashed to the cellars.

Bodahn was in the parlour, furiously sanding down a side of the staircase.

“We’ve no time for this!” Hawke protested. “Do you want to repaint the walls while you’re at it? They’ll start arriving soon! Is this what you’re wearing?”

“There are obscenities,” Bodahn said tragically. “Foul obscenities carved into the wood. Do we want our noble guests to see that?”

“It’s art!” announced Isabela. “Varric is right: everyone’s a critic these days.”

She was lounging on the couch, in a bright blue taffeta dress that shimmered in the candlelight and slunk down her curves in the cruelest way. The skirts were gathered in front, almost to her knees. Instead of her usual high boots she wore golden silk slippers, flimsy but sensibly flat, dangling on her toes. Her legs were framed by white froth of lacy petticoats, as if bathed in sea foam.

Her arms and shoulders were bare, showing off her sailor’s muscles and a collection of thin knife-blade scars, and her night-dark hair was strewn with a waterfall of flawless white pearls.

“Wow,” Hawke managed, imagining what it would be like to lick down one of those knife marks, over the curve of Isabela’s bicep. “You’re stunning. Merrill is the luckiest girl in Thedas and I’m a pathetic fool for letting you get away.”

“I know.” Isabela grinned. “Should you talk like that in front of her boyfriend, though?”

She almost didn’t see him at first, blinded by the expanse of bright blue silk and Isabela’s radiance. The chairs had been taken away to make space for dancing, so Fenris sat on the floor next to her, pouring her drink. They were sharing a bottle of something pale and fizzy, not the old reliable sandpaper-dry red from Hawke’s cellars. Fenris’ feet were bare as usual, the soles grimy from the walk here, and he still wore his customary black…

“Why not, I happen to agree with her,” Fenris said. “Hawke, you… I thought you’d wear red, yet I’m unprepared for this. You’re always beautiful, but… Wait, is that a bruise?”

“Just a finishing touch to remind my guests of my martial roots.”

He rose and moved closer to take a look. His clothes were soft gleaming velvet with pale gems for buttons, accented with silver, the collar shaped just right to draw eye to his perfect jawline. His bangs still hung in front of his eyes: Hawke suspected he didn’t like showing the dots on his forehead. But he’d put a single jewelled clasp in his hair, at the side - two amethysts in delicate filigree setting, silver wires twisting like his markings, like vallaslin of the Dalish. It looked deceptively simple, all serving to perfectly complement his beauty, so delicate, so exquisite and so full of strength.

“You look like an Arlathan prince,” Hawke said in helpless adoration.

“Who says I’m not?”

It was as deadpan as most of his jokes. But, given how little they knew about those old days, it could very well be true. If ancient elves had kings, any of their scattered descendants could be the next in line for those lost thrones. Who was to say it wasn’t Fenris?

“I’m glad you came,” she said. “I know you don’t agree…”

“A Fereldan farmer hosting a high society ball, with a sewer mage as a guest of honour? I wouldn’t miss that kind of a spectacle.”

“We’re done,” announced Orana from the top landing. “Should have started a few years ago, with proper sleep and daily care. But we have good bones to work with.”

She stepped aside with a sweeping gesture like drawing a curtain and pushed Anders forward.

He walked down the stairs to the stunned silence in the room. His soft narrow shoes made no sound, but his every movement was accompanied by sweet, barely-there ethereal chimes. The robes, long and slinky, gold and turquoise, looked like Jean-Luc had sewn him into them during that last-minute extra fitting. They shamelessly showed off every line of his long body, hugged his hips and clung to his legs on every step.

His arms were decorated with what would be an ridiculous number of bracelets on anyone else, but he made it work against all odds. He no longer looked starved or tired. He was clean-shaven for once, and his skin seemed to radiate light - and it did, Hawke saw as he came closer. His cheekbones sparkled with a dusting of gold shimmer, and his mouth looked soft and pink, with a touch of wet glimmer on his bottom lip, as if he’d just been kissing someone.

A thick line of kohl ran around his eyes, making them bright and deep, and gave him a youthful yet debauched look. Hawke had never seen him look so healthy, so at ease, moving with such grace.

His hair was brushed to the shine that made the best Antivan silks look dull by comparison. Orana had curled it slightly and braided it through with chains of red gold weighed with blue topazes. He wore a single earring with tree large gems strung together, almost brushing his shoulder, showing off his long neck.

There was a coat of gold lacquer on his fingernails, artfully tipped in green. That had to be not so much for flair as out of necessity: even Orana couldn’t polish out the stains from the potion-making and the ridges and spots left by poor nutrition and foul Darktown’s air. It was easier to cover them up.

“Ah, yes.” Isabela rose her glass to him. “That’s the Sparkle Fingers I remember.”

“I miss him too,” Anders said. He walked right at Hawke, and, with a short flutter of his soot-black eyelashes, reached out and cupped her face.

She made a squeaking sound and would have certainly tumbled over again if she still wore the evil shoes. She thought he’d lean in to kiss her with those flushed, petal-soft lips, and began to rise on her tiptoes when a familiar tingly wave of healing magic rushed through her, and the faint throb at her chin was gone, along with the bruise, presumably.

He ran his hands down her arms to heal the grazes on her elbows, making her skin hum under his touch.

“What’s that noise?” Fenris asked. “Is this a spell?”

“Just bells,” said Anders and coquettishly hitched up his skirts to show off an ankle bracelet with several tiny metal balls attached. “Makes people turn toward you, but they’re not quite sure why.”

“And whose idea was it for you to wear this… All of this?”

“Mine, who else’s? You don’t think Hawke designed this, do you? Look at her, she can’t even accessorise. You’re lucky you’re already perfect, love. Why? Do you think I can’t pull it off anymore?”

“No, it’s just… You look like you’re ready to whore yourself out for mage freedom. I don’t think that’s the impression--”

“Well, of course I’m ready, if only that was ever an option! If mages could fuck our way to freedom, we’d have done it! Kinloch Hold alone would have propelled magekind into a better future many ages ago. I mean, if you really must accuse us of something, then ‘Mages are slutty’ is infinitely close to the truth than your old ‘Mages are evil’ song.”

“I can see your nipples,” Hawke muttered, a little dumbstruck, and Anders happily puffed up his chest, making the hard points strain against the silk even more.

“Thank you, that’s by design. I used to have the robes that didn’t even come up to here, but I thought it would be a little too much for Hightown. Anyway, I just want to show the nobles a different kind of mage, not the cackling maleficar the Chantry talk about, not an overgrown child like their relatives in the Gallows. Just a person, fun and charming.”

Dulcie du Lancet and Marlein Selbrech, Hawke’s new friends and co-conspirators, turned up right on time as they’d promised.

“Everyone else is just sat in wait behind their curtains,” Dulcie said. “Making sure they won’t embarrass themselves by arriving first, you see.”

The rest of the Hightown swiftly followed and flooded her home with the din of their voices and the nauseatingly clashing scents of their perfume.

The mansion hadn’t seen a party since Leandra’s intimate gatherings. They barely had any guests since the wake. The house had a particular sound: with only half of it in use, their voices used to echo through empty hallways and sealed rooms. They all knew each other by the sound of their footsteps, knew which step on every staircase would creak, how Bear would fuss before lying down, how wind would play in the chimneys. Every sound was predictable, familiar. There used to be a particular smell, too: Orana’s cooking, Bodahn’s special wood polish and floor wash, those scented candles Sandal adored. Now, stuffed wall to wall with loud, brightly dressed people, the place was unrecognisable, and Hawke already longed for the time when they’d all finally leave.

Leandra would have loved this, though. It’s been a long time since the Amells were popular enough to draw this kind of crowd.

Soon it seemed like the whole of the Hightown’s population was crammed into her parlour. Excluding the servants and The Blooming Rose workers, of course: only three of the Rose women were here, on the nobles’ arms. They were dressed impeccably, carrying themselves with the kind poise Hawke couldn’t dream of. She could have easily believed these women were foreigns countesses, if she didn’t know them. She’d last seen them all at dawn on Monday, when the Madam had called on her to help toss out last drunk customers. Two of the women, drunk and yawning, had been wearily scrubbing themselves in a large tub in one of the vacated bedrooms. Hawke had felt a strong pang of kinship: she was just like that after a full day of Championing, except she’d be washing off gore and spider goo.

She waited for the first wave of loud greetings and hissing whispers to abate and climbed up a few stairs to address the gathering.

“Dear friends, thank you for coming. I know the last assembly divided us, and I take my share of the blame. I’d asked a lot of you, and said plenty of harsh things when the vote didn’t go my way. So let me make it up to you. Let’s mend the bridges and celebrate our friendship. Let’s discuss my ideas and your concerns leisurely, over some good food and good wine. Let’s see if we can’t all meet in the middle.”

She hoped that the middle would be about a hair’s width from her original position: oust Meredith, protect the Gallows’ mages, install a new Viscount. Show a firm united front to the Chantry and to Orlais, draft a proposal of alliance with Fereldan and other Marsher cities. Wine was bound to help some.

“But what’s a party without exciting guests of honour?” she continued. “Allow me to introduce three of my dearest friends and companions, some of the most remarkable people you’ll ever meet. I owe them my life, my fortune and my titles, so treat them like my closest family. Captain Isabela is an entrepreneur from Rivain, and she can tell you all about the Circle and the Chantry there. That’s my vision of what I want for us: a union, a partnership, not being trod on by the Templars. Fair warning: Isabela is a famous and unsurpassed duelist, so don’t tempt fate around her.”

Isabela hopped onto the second stair and gave the gathering a deep bow and a generous view down her cleavage. Several hands shot out to help her descend again. She ignored them all and headed straight to where Bodahn was topping up the wine glasses. All eyes were on her, many glazed with lust, and Hawke doubted anyone would be talking about Rivaini Circle tonight.

“Some of you might have seen Fenris around town. He is hard to miss and harder to forget. You might already know that he lives at Hightown Estates and highly values his privacy, and that might be all you’ll learn about his personal life. But he’s travelled far and wide and must have read more on Thedosian history, religion and warfare just in the last three years than any of us had in a lifetime. He’s a deep thinker and more eloquent speaker I’ll ever be, and has an informed opinion on any subject you might think of.”

“Thank you, Hawke, you flatter me.” Fenris elected not to bow but instead gave the gathering just a ghost of a smile, his chin held high. “I try to keep an open mind. On any subject except seafood cuisine, that is - fish is disgusting and I will not debate that.”

The guests obligingly laughed at the joke. If anyone was affronted that a guest of honour was an elf, nobody had chosen to show it.

“He’s sceptical about some of my goals, as are some of you, so we’ll have balance to the conversation. And as for my last guest…”

She extended a hand to Anders and he took it and joined her on the stairs.

“This is Anders,” she said. He cocked his hip and gave the nobles a playful little nod. “I suppose I shouldn’t say any more, should I?”

“No, that would be quite naughty, the way things are,” Anders said. “We should be discreet. If anyone is curious, ask me. I’ll whisper it to you.”

He winked and slipped back into the crowd with the faintest echo of chimes in his wake. While everyone stared after him in confused fascination, Hawke subtly wiped cold sweat from her forehead and nodded to Bodahn, who stood ready to announce with great pomp and flourish that the dinner was served.

The nobles fell onto food with shocking fervour, like a pack of wolves on a fresh kill.

“What the fuck is wrong with them?” Hawke whispered to Gamlen. “Did they all fast for a week?”

“They’re lining their stomachs for wine,” he answered with authority. “Besides, when you’re never hungry, food is boring. Tevinter cuisine is a rare treat, so they gorge. Don’t worry, we planned for this.”

Orana led in a procession of elves, each bearing more food, and they quickly refilled and replaced empty dishes. Once the feeding frenzy slowed down a little Orana brought in a low stool and her lute and began gently plucking the strings, just loudly enough to fill the room with music but not interfere with conversations.

Hawke grabbed a bottle and cornered a small clump of her most vocal detractors. She was starting to get the hang of this diplomacy thing in her advanced age: the loudest people, the ones who would yell their protests right in your face, responded best to frank heart-to-hearts. The ones who quietly lowered their eyes and still voted against her would only demure again if she tried to badger them with her arguments upfront. They would shrug and slink away and carry on scheming. They had to be cajoled, played; they were the tricky ones.

By the time the bottle was empty they’d finished talking business and moved onto slobbery hugs and declarations of friendship. Hawke finally disentangled herself from them and went to see how the rest of the party was going.

Isabela was at the heart of the largest and the loudest group of people, and she was running a card game. The spectators were roaring with laughter, the players were yelling in anguish at every loss, and the mountain of coin at Isabela’s side of table already had some brooches and earrings in it: people were running out of cash and betting their party looks piecemeal. Bodahn was topping up the glasses every time a guest took as much of a sip, and interjected with one of his stories whenever anyone stared too intently at Isabela’s hands. The Feddics were probably getting a cut of her winnings.

Fenris was in the quietest, darkest corner, surrounded by a group of older men. Hawke drew closer to them, a little anxious, but Gamlen was there too and they were having one of their endless foreign policy debates.

“Yes, Kirkwall can blockade Orlesian shipping routes,” Gamlen said and all the nobles nodded sagely. “But Orlais can put an embargo on us just as well.”

“But what would that do? The Free Marches produce twice the grain they consume,” Fenris said. “Starvation is no threat. They can’t cut us off Antiva or Nevarra, and as long as we trade with Nevarra we can trade with Tevinter, if we for some reason must. What would we lose apart from perfumes, bad wine and soft cheeses?”

“Lyrium,” said Ser Ebner, the secretary of the nobles’ assembly. Here he was, the head of one of the oldest noble houses of Kirkwall: sipping wine in Hawke’s house, debating foreign trade with an elf. “Most of it comes here from Orlais, through the Chantry channels. Losing the lyrium would cripple our craftsmen and kill our templars.”

“That’s true. Unless Kirkwall pardons the lyrium smugglers and buys from them,” said Fenris. “And why not? Lyrium trade is only illegal because Orlais says so. Besides, I’ve been to the Deep Roads, I’ve seen their wonders. It’s a shame to let the darkspawn have the run of them. There are tunnels going straight to Orzimmar from here, and it should be possible to open and use them.”

“Why so eager for the war with Orlais?” asked a younger man, someone Hawke didn’t recognise. Someone’s son, most likely, not yet allowed to come to the assembly and publicly make an fool of himself. “It’s the Dales, right? Elves want the Dales. You think you’ll get it if you stir up wars. Buy those lands with human blood.”

“I don’t want to see another war, I’d had enough on Seheron. I just want another drink,” said Fenris and Gamlen helpfully refilled his glass. “But often the best way to prevent war is to prepare for one. I don’t know what other elves want, to tell the truth. There are a lot of us. But if not for Shartan and his elves joining Andraste’s rebellion the whole of Thedas would still be enslaved by Tevinter. Not just the Dales, but your freedom too was bought with elven blood.”

“That’s blasphemy, knife-ear!” the kid yelled, and Hawke took his arm and poked her thumb into a pressure point, and held him up when he lost his footing, about to collapse from the pain.

“Go into the garden, get some fresh air, drink some water, sober up and behave,” she told him as he stared at her in drunken indignation. “This is your final warning.”

He stumbled away without a squeak of protest, and Hawke shrugged at the rest of the group.

“Always one at every party, sadly,” said Ser Ebner. “Champion, I must say, you spoil up with this delightful company. Serah Fenris, what do you make of the Qunari threat? Shouldn’t we consider that any weakening of the Chantry would result in rising influence of the Qun? Surely that’s not what you want, Hawke, and perhaps you shouldn’t hold up Rivain as your goal.”

“That’s an excellent point,” Fenris began, and then glanced at Hawke and gave Ser Ebner a little bow. “I will be back to discuss it, but right now I need a moment with our hostess.”

He pulled her a little further away, to relative privacy near the window.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “These functions can be draining, I know, I’ve suffered through hundreds. Do you need to slip away? We’ll cover for you.”

“No. I’m just angry.”

“Ah. That drunk child got to you, didn’t he?”

“A little. Will you dance with me?”

There were still only a few couples moving across the floor in slow precise steps. She imagined the two of them joining in, stark in their black and red, both barefoot, linking their hands for everyone to see…

“No,” he said. “You’re suppose to woo them, not scandalise them.”

“I just - I’m so proud of you. I want everyone to know.”

“And I want you to fight one battle at a time.”

“Well, what if both evils have the same root, because the Chantry--”

“No.”

Finally she saw the glimpse of panic in his eyes, the way his ears drooped a little as they only did when he was embarrassed. She was pushing him, trying to put him on the spot, use him as a prop to make a statement.

“Sorry,” she said. “Sure, fine.”

“I don’t even know how to dance.”

“Me neither. I only ever danced the jig, in a barn at harvest moon. Let’s go check on Anders.”

They found him in the study, on the couch, surrounded by breathless, rapt audience. For a moment Hawke thought he was reading them his manifesto, and then wished he was.

Lady Ardeman was leaning across the couch with her dress half unlaced, biting down short ecstatic moans. Anders’ hands were on her naked back, glowing, flaunting his magic for the whole of Hightown to see.

They’d talked about it, and agreed that they’d let slip a hint that he was a mage, have that travel through the party as a hushed rumour. She’d thought it would be passed around in whispers and never quite become public knowledge. And if someone would betray them and call the tempars, so be it. Anders could easily escape through the tunnels, and the whole of Kirkwall nobility would see the injustice, the brutality, the tragedy of a harmless fancy party heartlessly ruined.

She didn’t think he’d do this.

“That’s it, you shouldn’t have any more pain,” he said and broke the channelled spell, and Lady Ardeman bonelessly sagged under his touch. Everyone watching exhaled at once, and a wave of quick whispers flew through the room, like a gust of wind through the trees. Lord Ardeman shook Anders’ hand, helped his wife sit up and began lacing her dress.

“Don’t know how to thank you, I was so scared, I thought - well, never mind that now,” he babbled. “Any reward, just name it…”

“Donations for the clinic are always welcome,” Anders said. Another patient, a younger woman, was already advancing on him, and only then Hawke realised that the audience was, in fact, an orderly queue.

“I can only relieve the symptoms,” he said as soon as he laid hands on her. “They’ll be back in a week or so. If you’d like me to treat the underlying cause you’d need to come to the clinic and stay overnight.”

“To the sewers?” she cringed. “Can’t you set up here?”

“Hawke has already risked a lot to give me this opportunity. I can’t ask for more.”

“You can use my place.” Another woman perched on the couch next to him and pressed her hand - soft, with immaculate nails and extravagantly lavish rings - to her high bosom. “I don’t mind the risk for a good cause. You’re always welcome in my mansion.”

“Mine as well,” said the young lady and put her hand on Anders’ knee. “We’re a powerful family of good standing, we’ll keep you safe. We’ll make you feel right at home. Anything you want, just say it.”

“I’d be honoured to offer my humble place as well,” said the son of one of Leandra’s friends, a frequent topic of the music salon gossip due to his mother’s dogged but fruitless attempts to marry him off. He took Anders’ hand and pulled it up, as if about to kiss it.

Anders demurely smiled at them all and seemed to bask in their admiration and their unsubtle lust.

“He wouldn’t accept,” said Fenris. He’d stepped around the couch and stood behind Anders’ back. “The healer leads a very simple and pious life. He even keeps celibate for religious reasons.”

“What? Fenris, please, just go away,” Anders sighed. Behind him Fenris held up his bent pinky, and both women’s faces fell a little.

“Ah, I see how it is,” said the man. “Well, out of the respect to the Champion and her friends, I will bow out. Shame, though.”

He dropped Anders’ hand and pulled away. Anders seemed almost ready to call him back, but the next patient was already advancing, and Hawke decided to leave him to it.

The party went on, the noise of it pitching higher and higher. The neighbours should be complaining, but luckily they were all right here. With Sandal helping Orana on tambourine, the dancing was getting more and more like the Fereldan jig. Bear would have been howling to join the fun, but thankfully Aveline took her to the barracks for the night. Fenris and Ser Ebner’s friends kept clasping hands and yell at each other over the din something about excise taxes. Anders’ patients finally came downstairs, pink-faced and smiling, and stayed clustered around him as if to save him from being snatched away. Bodahn had his own circle of minor nobles listening to his Blight tales, and he looked happier than ever. A couple of vases were smashed and someone was sick all over the roses in the garden, but that was just how these things went.

Well past midnight the guests began trickling out. Isabela came up to give Hawke a hug, her breath wine-scented and her dressed hair still immaculate.

“Sleep here, there are plenty of rooms,” Hawke offered.

“Thanks, but turns out that guy has a boat,” she pointed vaguely. “We’re going night sailing.”

“Have fun then. Did you have a chance to talk to anyone about the Chantry and--”

“Oh, no, that would be dreadfully dull. But once they ran out of money we played for favours.” She fished a handful of folded papers out of her bodice and poured them into Hawke’s hands. “These are IOUs with names on them, all the people who promised to support you. I warned them if they don’t vote the way you tell them I’ll come to collect, and not in a sexy way. Oh yeah, the boys fell asleep in the study, it’s adorable. I posed them a little, but don’t tell them that. They’ll both think it was the other one.”

After everyone left Hawke walked through the rooms, which were suddenly huge and airy again, and surveyed the damage. She gathered some abandoned plates and stained napkins and took them to the kitchens.

Orana was there alone, washing an imposing mountain of dishes and softly humming the tune she’d been playing. Hawke pulled up a chair, grabbed a cloth and joined in.

They worked together in meditative rhythm. Hawke was half-dozing off, soothed by the simple work after all the buzz and tension of the party.

“Where are the others?” she asked, suddenly remembering. “They were supposed to help you clean up.”

“I let them go early. It was getting rowdy in here, and I didn’t want them to walk home in the dark.”

“I promised them leftovers.”

“I took care of it. You can go to bed, I’ll get this done.”

Hawke dismissively waved a cloth at her and they kept going.

“I made you a sandwich, if you’re peckish,” Orana said, and Hawke, unbelievably, realised that she was. She wiped the suds off her hands, found the sandwich on a plate on a counter, covered by a napkin, and bit into it.

“Thanks,” she mumbled with her mouth full.

“You’re always welcome, Hawke.”

Hawke tried to chew quietly and savour the moment. She was sure this was the first time Orana used her name.

“I want to ask you something,” Orana said. “What would you say if I set my eyes on your cousin?”

“Warden-Commander? She’s already engaged. To an assassin, so I’d first check what he has to say about that…”

“No. Charade Amell.”

Just the way she said it, the way she relished every sound in her mouth like a delicacy, like a gulp of water in a drought, made it clear: there was nothing hypothetical about this.

“Oh, that’s…” Hawke muttered, suddenly wide awake, and put down the slippery plate she was working on. “Does she like you back? Have you already…”

Orana flushed and nodded, and Hawke let out a joyful scream and grabbed her in a hug. Orana laughed awkwardly and went stiff in her arms, and Hawke realised that was the first time she touched her as well.

“Nothing happened, we only talked,” Orana said as Hawke let go of her. “I said I’d ask you first, I owe you that much.”

“No, it’s really none of my business, except it solves every single problem with my will! And of course I’m happy for you, goes without saying. See, I wanted to make sure you’ll always have a home here as long as you want it, but I also wanted the mansion to go to Charade, because Mother would want for an Amell to have it and Gamlen would just piss it away again. And now you can live here together and look after him! It’s perfect!”

“You planned it much further than we had.” Orana was smiling, still blushing hard. “Surely there are still decades before you need to think about all of that.”

It wouldn’t be that long if Meredith took offence at what they’d been doing tonight, and what they would do soon if the assembly finally votes in favour of her proposals. But there was no point scaring a lovestruck girl before anything happened.

“Just being organised,” Hawke said. “Varric makes me keep my paperwork in order, you know how he gets. You should really be asking Gamlen, he’s Charade’s dad…”

“Oh, who cares about his opinion.”

“Wise words,” Hawke agreed. “Do you need - your parents aren’t here, so - do you have any questions? About sex?”

Orana laughed again and shook her head.

“No, Hawke. No offence, but Merrill gossips. So I know I can probably answer any questions you might still have.”

“Ugh. Why am I being constantly insulted in my own city? Of which I am the Champion, might I add?”

“Fenris looks very happy, so I’m sure you’re doing just fine,” Orana said with gentle condescension, and when Hawke pouted, awkwardly nudged her with a knee.

It wasn’t like having Bethany back, of course not. Charade wasn’t going to replace Bethany either. But Hawke was still grateful for them both.

Once the dishes were done Hawke went up into the study, and had to agree with Isabela: what she did was probably a prank too far, but it was kind of adorable.

Anders and Fenris were asleep on the couch. They must have dozed off at its separate ends, but now, thanks to Isabela’s posing efforts, they were curled up together. Fenris’ head was tucked snugly into the crook of Anders’ neck, and he drooled a little onto the golden silk of the robes. Anders had his arms draped around Fenris’ back, cheek pressed gently against his white hair, inches from where the jewelled clasp was now hanging askew. They must have both been pretty drunk not to wake up while Isabela manhandled them.

Hawke drank in the peaceful tableau. They really looked gorgeous like this, and that wasn’t just the finery. The clothes, the jewellery - that didn’t change them, all that only made them look… sparklier.

She carefully wedged a hand between them, slowly circled Fenris with her arms and pulled and gently as she could to separate them before she woke them up. She wasn’t in the mood to see them hiss and spit like affronted cats and blame each other for this indignity.

Fenris made an unhappy sound and tried to wriggle back to his warm spot on Anders’ shoulder, and Anders reflexively tightened his arms around him, and, naturally, that woke both of them.

They stared at each other, their faces still too close. Anders slowly retracted his arms in a weirdly turtle-like motion. Fenris wiped drool off his lips and, with the back of his hand, from the robes as well, and rearranged his legs so he wasn’t half in Anders’ lap.

“It’s quiet, so I assume we’re done?” he asked Hawke and she nodded. “I’m sorry we weren’t helping clear out the guests. We were just… talking, and… fell asleep. I must have drank more than I thought.”

“I think I’ve spent too much mana,” Anders piped in. “I should have paced myself, it was just - exhilarating to be able to do this. Openly.”

“You do this all the time,” Hawke said. “You heal people daily.”

“Desperate people with no one else to turn to, yes. They have no choice. That’s where apostates belong, with the refugees and cutthroats, in the dark. For the nobles to accept my presence here, in their world… I never thought it would be that easy. They were excited! They all kept saying it’s about time we stop isolating mages from society!”

Hawke beamed at him and decided not to tell him that there used to be mages at every Hightown party. Hired by the host through the Chantry, brought in with a templar escort and fed at the servants’ table along with the musicians, here to provide entertainment: light shows and shadow plays, sensory amusement with Elements, different forms of intoxication with Entropy and Spirit, Force magic juggling tricks. That stopped roughly thirty three years ago, when a promising young mage Malcolm Hawke knocked up a debutante and ran away with her, but the nobles still remembered and craved the fun they used to have.

“Don’t get too attached.” Fenris had already nonchalantly shifted away, into a more dignified position, leaning against the back of the sofa. “The nobility everywhere are just a gang of self-serving back-stabbers. When they say ‘society’ they mean the rich, and all they want is use you. They wrung you dry healing their back aches and bunions. If not for me, right now you’d be a centrepiece in an orgy in one of those mansions. People like that--”

“Wait, what? What did you do?”

“I think he started a disparaging rumour about your dick, sorry,” Hawke said, not feeling sorry at all. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.”

“Oh, more than that, love. I finally believe your plan might work. We might change things peacefully, after all. It won’t be everything mages need and deserve, only what the nobles would give us. But that’s more we can ever get from the Chantry. I don’t know how to thank you, I--”

Hawke just had time to wonder if his eyes were sparkling with elation or unshed tears, when suddenly his hand was on her jaw and his lips were on hers.

He kissed her, moaning into her mouth, softly, sweetly moving his tongue against her lips. She instantly felt twice as drunk as before, gasping for breath in this too-tight dress, and she was about to grab his naked shoulders and pull him closer when he wasn’t there anymore.

She opened her eyes and saw him lean toward Fenris, and then jerk backwards as if he’d just woken up again.

“Sorry,” Anders muttered and scrambled to get off the couch. “I’m not thinking - this whole night is like a strange dream. I shouldn’t--”

“No, go on,” said Fenris almost under his breath. He didn’t move at all and his huge green eyes were unblinking, still a little startled. But Hawke knew this particular look of keen interest very well by now, and it wasn’t any less breathtaking just because he wasn’t looking at her.

Anders threw a quick concerned glance at Hawke. She thumbed a trace of his saliva off her lip and shrugged. Neither of them had to ask for her permission, she didn’t own them. If she was a better person she’d respectfully turn away and give them privacy. But, obviously, she wasn’t. She sat on the edge of the sofa and stared like a creep.

Anders took a breath and slowly leaned closer to Fenris again, keeping his eyes open and intent on his face, as if he expected this to be a trap, a punchline to a joke he wasn’t in on. His bare arms stayed at his sides, and Fenris’ hands were peacefully folded in his lap. With their faces just inches apart Fenris tipped his chin up and parted his lips a little, and Anders swallowed a nervous half-laugh and brought their mouths together in a feather-light, exquisite brush of lips that probably felt like less of a touch and more like a wave of nourishing warmth, like a touch of a healing spell.

It only lasted a heartbeat, and then Anders was pulling away and Fenris watched him retreat with a shadow of a smile, the heat in his eyes now open and shameless enough to make Hawke’s mouth dry with want for him.

“Coward,” he said and lunged forward.

He flung his arms around Anders’ neck and yanked him closer. Their lips smashed together in a clumsy, painful way that had to leave at least one of them bruised, but Anders tilted his head to make the angle right and opened his mouth to let Fenris’ tongue in.

Their kisses looked overeager, messy and probably too hard and toothy, but they only stopped when Fenris let go.

“Was that for Hawke?” Anders asked quietly, still staring at Fenris’ flushed lips. Some of his eye paint had smudged and he looked a gorgeous mess, and Hawke ached to kiss him again. “Not that I’m against that in principle, but I need to know where you are with this.”

Hawke wasn’t worried. She knew Fenris would do a lot of things for her - put himself between her and any enemy’s blade, learn to sleep next to her with her dog farting and climbing over them, even attend a high society ball in aid of mages. But not pretend at pleasure and desire. He was done with that.

“I think you misunderstand why I prefer Hawke to be here.” Fenris blindly reached for her, and she took his hand. “I’ve not… been… with many people. It’s been difficult to - even with her. You know it took me three years to undo enough knots to be with her. But I want to be free. With my wants, with my body. There are still jagged edges everywhere, like they’d left traps behind. I want…”

He grunted, search for the right words, and threw his hand up in exasperation.

“I understand,” Anders said. “And I’d love to, but… Telling Hawke why I couldn’t be with her was like pulling my own guts out. Don’t make me do that again.”

“Yeah, let’s just go to bed, leave him alone,” said Hawke and tugged on his hand that she still held, but Fenris didn’t budge and instead squinted disdainfully and jabbed a finger somewhere near Anders’ nipple that was still erect under the silk.

“You really think you’re not with her?” he asked. “Mage, you’re more of an idiot than I thought. And that’s a low bar, by the way.”

“He’s right, love.” Hawke tucked some escaped golden strands of hair behind Anders’ ear and gave his earring a little loving tug, and he leaned his cheek against her hand, closing his eyes with a wistful sigh, as if he almost couldn’t help it. “You are kind of dumb about this.”

“Probably,” Anders said agreeably. “But this isn’t a time to start anything. We’re all drunk, for one.”

“Oh yeah, that’s a good point,” mumbled Fenris and finally let Hawke pull him off the couch. “That’s one decent point you’ve made tonight.”

In her bedroom Fenris freed her from the dress - he was surprisingly deft with hooks and laces - tipped her onto the bed, pressed her into the pillows and kissed her deep, with a hint of sharp teeth teasing at her lower lip.

“Tell me how you imagined it,” he asked and ran his hot tongue inside the shell of her ear, making her squirm.

“What?”

“You know what. Would you want to watch? Or join in? Debauch him together? Rip up that ridiculous robe and let his hair down, and--”

“Ffuck,” she muttered, a spike of lust making her shiver. His fingers slid into her cunt, and she was shocked to feel how wet she was, how open. “Maker’s tits, ah. We shouldn’t talk like that about him.”

“Why not? The window’s closed. And if you think he’s not beating off right now to the thought of us having him, well, you’re wrong.”

“Fuck,” she sobbed, bit at his shoulder and reached for his cock. He was hard, hot and sticky in her hand, and she tugged him closer and guided him inside, and sighed with relief at being filled. Fenris groaned and swore in Tevene and pushed deeper in, slowly grinding against her.

“We could leave bite marks all over his neck,” he whispered. “And in the morning we’d look at the bruises and guess who made each one.”

“We could make him come over and over, and when he’s drained we’d make him come once more.”

“And then we’d not let him come for hours. Have him pleasure you and not even touch himself. He’d love that.”

“I want to tie him up,” Hawke confessed, digging her fingers into Fenris’ straining back muscles. “Have him all at my mercy, relaxed and warm and happy.”

“I want to fuck him,” he grunted into her neck. “I want to bent him over the edge of this bed and watch his tongue on your quim, and I want to open him up, get inside him, make him scream with pleasure.”

“I want him to fuck me. I want to ride him, while you kiss him.”

“I want to taste his cock,” Fenris said, and Hawke shuddered under him and came, and he gasped at the tight clasp of her cunt and spilt inside her with no warning.

They panted against each other, both slick with sweat. The room smelled like a brewery just from their expelled breaths: they were both drunker than she’d thought, clearly.

“Is the window really closed?” Hawke asked, not daring to turn look. “Fuck, imagine if he heard that.”

Despite the full body post-coital flush, she did somehow manage to painfully blush at the very idea, her ears pulsing with the rush of blood.

“He’d be here already,” chuckled Fenris and slid down to kiss her breasts, and soon was snoring with his head on her chest.

Hawke petted his hair, stared at the dark ceiling and and smiled with smug pride and hope. Every stab of guilt and self-loathing she’d ever felt, every mistake she’d ever made didn’t seem to matter anymore. She had a warm home full of love, she had a city full of friends and supporters, and she was going to make the world safe for Anders and Bethany. She deserved every happiness and indulgence, and those wonderful kisses tonight, and that huge breakfast they were all going to share tomorrow, and this pleasure, this moment of perfect peace.

“Going to fix everything,” she whispered to herself. “It’ll be so great.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me at http://newkate.tumblr.com


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